


lost in the world

by ymorton



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Drug Use, M/M, POV Alternating, Prostitution, Statutory Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 09:58:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 49,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2769005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>zayn and harry are high-class escorts. simon's their manager, ben's a client, nick's a friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> uuuhhh title is from the kanye west song of the same name 
> 
> come say hi on tumblr: ihavea1dbloghelp.tumblr.com
> 
> WARNINGS for: past statutory rape, drug use as a coping mechanism, a scene of feeding kink, lots of sadness, physical abuse

**ZAYN**  

Simon steps on the pedal, screeches away from the bar, and Zayn tightens his grip on his own thigh, hesitant to look nervous when Simon’s in a mood like this. 

"Where have they all gone, hmm?" Simon says, voice low, irritated. "The fresh blood? The needy little cunts who’ll do anything for ten pounds but also have a fucking _iota_ of something attractive than I can bloody polish up?” 

Zayn’s pretty sure that’s rhetorical. He looks out the window, as London zooms by. 

"And it’s not like I’m not willing to lower my standards, I mean, sweetheart, I admit, you were a mutt when I first saw you," Simon says, mean, laughing. "A _mutt_. Thought I’d have to check you for fleas. But look at you now.” 

Zayn coughs into his elbow, smiles sideways at Simon. It’s not like he’s expected to talk, really, unless he’s asked a direct question. Simon doesn’t mind him quiet. It’s only the fourth time Zayn’s gone out looking for recruits with Simon, and it’s always pretty much the same. Simon goes to bars and has a drink at each one and talks to pretty boys and pretty girls with hungry eyes and either takes them home or leaves them in the cold with a fiver for their time. By the end of the night he’s drunk and coldly furious, unless it was successful, in which case he’s drunk and happy, and he lets Zayn drive him back to his flat after he does a bump of coke in the toilet of wherever they are. 

Zayn remembers when Simon seemed completely infallible to him. Right about the time he pulled Zayn out of a bar in East London, five years ago. Told him he had nice eyes, and took Zayn into a car that cost more than Zayn’s family’s house back in Bradford. 

Now Zayn feels a mix of fear and awe and pity towards him, and for some reason it’s comfortable, it feels familiar. Simon’s just a man, and Zayn knows men. 

"You were quite a project," Simon murmurs, going too fast around a corner. "That horrendous accent. Like your tongue was glued to the roof of your mouth." 

He laughs to himself and then says, “Where’s that corner where we picked up Jade?” 

"It was near a Starbucks, I think," Zayn says. "But I can’t remember which one." 

"Some seedy alleyway," Simon says pensively. "By a Tesco, maybe. Let’s try there, and then turn in. You’ve got a job tomorrow, haven’t you?"

"Yeah," Zayn breathes, rubbing his hands over his thighs. He does have a job. A man in his thirties who likes Zayn very clean-shaven, very soft, dolled up in knickers and mascara. It’s not a bad time, really, except the man’s breath always smells like stale coffee and his hands are clammy and Zayn doesn’t like sucking his dick. Still. It’s not the worst thing he’s done.  

He might end up with a job tonight, if they don’t find anyone and Simon decides he wants Zayn’s mouth. Not exactly a job, since he doesn’t get paid, but it’s a job in that it - facilitates his other jobs. Simon likes to dip into his own supply if the mood strikes, and what’s Zayn going to say, no? He can’t say  _no_.

Zayn sighs out a quiet breath, peers anxiously at the window, feeling a flicker of irritation. He doesn’t really want to get on his knees in the car, tonight. He wants to smoke a joint and go to bed alone. 

"Wait," Simon says, slowing down at the start of a narrow alleyway, peering in. There’s a light shining down the alley from the street at the other end, and Zayn squints, sees someone standing there. 

"I can’t see," Zayn says. "Go closer." 

Simon hooks a right turn, and slows to a crawl. Midway down the alley, the headlights catch on the person’s face, and Zayn raises a curious eyebrow. A boy. A pretty boy, big eyes, big lips, long girly hair, tight tight jeans. Underdressed for the weather, a bag over one shoulder, peering hopefully down the alley at the car. He’s a whore, that’s for sure.

"Seems alright," Zayn says to Simon, who stops the car and opens the door. He leaves the key in the ignition, and Zayn stays back, rolls down the window so he can hear. 

The boy’s walking away, slowly, and Simon calls, “Wait!” 

The boy stops. From this distance Zayn can see his face more clearly. He really is gorgeous. His brown hair’s greasy and he’s got some spots on his forehead and chin, but then, Zayn was a complete mess once, wasn’t he. Or whatever Simon likes to say. 

There’s something about this kid. His eyes, maybe. Even from a distance, they’re massive, green and shiny and arresting. 

Zayn can’t hear what Simon’s saying, but then Simon straightens up and comes back towards the car. 

He leans into Zayn’s window. 

"What do you think?" 

"He’s a hooker?" 

Simon nods, lets out a laugh. “Asked me if I wanted to see what he could do with his mouth. He looks desperate.” 

Zayn purses his lips. Desperate’s good. 

"Here, come out and play," Simon says, arching an eyebrow. "See if you think he’s up to snuff." 

Zayn looks down the alleyway again. The boy’s huddled against the wind, an arm crossed over his chest. 

"Fine," he says, and slides out of the car, tugs his leather jacket around his shoulders. 

The boy’s taller than Zayn thought, an inch or two taller than Zayn, and his eyes are curious and steady on Zayn’s. He looks faintly nervous. 

"Well, Mr. Malik," Simon says, putting his hand against Zayn’s back, warm through his jacket. He rubs a little, back and forth. Zayn tries not to twitch away. "What do you think?" 

Zayn exhales slowly, looks at the boy top to toe. That hair’s a problem, and his posture is awful. His arms are a bit too long, and he’s got some softness on his lower belly that’ll need to go. 

He’s busy studying the boy’s eyebrows when the boy opens his mouth and says, “Threesomes cost extra.” 

He’s got a backbone. Zayn breathes out a laugh. 

"Pretty," he says, noncommittally. "Bit greasy, though." 

Simon hums. “Greasy can be cleaned.” 

Zayn nods, watching the way the boy’s back hunches at the words. Maybe not  _much_ of a backbone. 

"What’s your name?" he asks. 

The boy doesn’t make eye contact, doesn’t open his mouth. There’s a hardness to his eyes that Zayn recognizes, responds to. He gets the sudden feeling that the boy could bolt at any second, like a fearful animal. Zayn has to bite down a strange laugh at the thought. 

"Does it matter?" Simon says, sounding amused. 

"I want to know," Zayn says quietly, swallowing. He keeps his eyes steady. "Hair needs a cut, doesn’t it." 

Simon laughs. “Yours did too. We cleaned you up, didn’t we?” 

_Mutt,_ Zayn thinks, and he steps behind the boy, looks at his backside. A nice arse. Small but full. People will like it. 

He steps back, conscious of the way Simon’s tensing up next to him, impatient. He has this feeling that he needs to make Simon think this is all his own idea. That he can’t want it too much. Simon could still leave him behind, if the boy’s too thick, or too mouthy, or won’t agree to the terms. 

Zayn just wants to go home. He wants to go home and smoke and sleep.

"Yeah," he says. "He’s cute."

**HARRY**

It all starts because Harry changes his regular route, avoids the Tesco Metro he usually stands behind and ends up in an alley next to a Nando’s and a boarded-up electronics store with ancient-looking flip phones in the window. 

He’s not sure about the new location - seems deserted when he gets there, a little after nine, straightening his threadbare grey t-shirt and shifting his bag from shoulder to shoulder as the weight grows more taxing. But by nine-thirty he’s climbing into the front seat of a car, and by five past ten he’s back on the corner with forty pounds in his back pocket and a free half-finished cup of Coke from McDonald’s into the bargain. 

"Mind throwing it away?" the man had said, pulling it out of the cupholder as he dropped Harry back off, and Harry had shrug-nodded, wiping the bitter taste off the corners of his mouth, and then taken a cautious sip once the man pulled away. It was flat but sweet, and the sugar went straight to his head and his empty stomach. When Harry goes home for the night, he’s getting Nando’s. And lots of it. Enough to last him for a few days, in case business slows down. And if his arsehole flatmate eats a single bite of it, Harry will  _stab him with a fork._

He’s leaning against the wall, scuffing his shoes against the pavement and trying to look inconspicuous and yet conspicuous to the right people, when a car turns down the opposite end of the alley. 

Harry looks up, hopefully, with that little curl of fear in his belly he still gets, every time he does this. 

The car slows, and then stops, fifty yards or so from Harry, the engine still running. The driver’s side door opens, which is unusual. 

Harry edges towards the street, the bright light of the Nando’s. They can try and kill him, but they’re less likely to if he’s not in the dark. 

"Wait," a voice calls, just as Harry’s thinking about turning the corner. 

He looks back. It’s a man - white, mid-forties, long black jacket. He looks impatient. 

"Yeah?" Harry says back, tugging his bag up onto his shoulders. 

"C’mere," the man says. "You’re not usually here, are you? Not usually on this street?" 

Harry gulps in a nervous breath. He’s thought about _that_ , too, about being on someone else’s turf, by accident, about getting beaten up or knifed or worse. It always seemed clear around here. Harry thought it was alright. 

"I can leave, if you want," he says hastily, as the man walks toward him. Now that Harry’s looking at him more closely, he can see the man is rich. Shiny leather shoes, well-cut trousers, and the car idling behind him is an Audi, a new-looking one. 

Harry perks up, a bit. 

"No need," the man says, eyes scanning Harry’s face. "I was looking for someone like you. Am I correct in assuming that you’re loitering in a London alleyway to - do business, so to speak?" 

Talks fancy, too. Like the characters in the Jane Austen books Gemma was always reading. 

"Any kind of business you like," Harry says, trying to sound charming, but he regrets it straight after. What if the man thinks he’s got drugs or summat? Harry doesn’t have any drugs. 

The man nods, coolly. "Pretty mouth," he says, looking at it. His gaze is heavy but not hot, not hungry. More like he’s assessing a work of art, not looking for a blowjob. Harry licks his lips nervously, tries to play it off like he did it on purpose. 

"Fancy seeing what I can do with it?"

The faint smile slides right off the man’s face, and he looks annoyed.

"Don’t be crass," he says. "That’s not - well. Maybe that is attractive, out here."

Harry’s cheeks are hot. What a prick. 

Still, he finds himself brightening up under the attention, hopeful. The man’s got such a nice car, is the thing, and nice shoes, and Harry’s bloody hungry. 

"Alright, then," the man says. "Stay there for a moment." 

Harry shifts from foot to foot, crosses an arm over his chest. It’s getting colder as the wind picks up, the evening slides into night. He bets a man like this has got a big fancy flat, maybe in Primrose Hill or Belgravia. Or a lavish hotel room, if he’s an out-of-towner. 

The man’s bending down to talk into the passenger seat of the car, and then he steps back and the door opens and someone comes out. Harry squints against the fading light. It’s another man - no, a boy, maybe, maybe in his mid-twenties. He’s slender, with caramel-colored skin and dark tight jeans and a leather jacket. He has the biggest eyes Harry’s seen on a bloke, and high cheekbones, and every inch of him looks polished and pretty and buffed to a sheen. 

Harry’s quite fond of his own face, but looking at this bloke, Harry can feel every imperfection he’s got. The spot throbbing on his chin, the sunburnt freckles on his nose, his greasy hair. He’s not perfect at all. Not like this boy. 

He keeps the arm crossed over his chest. 

"Well, Mr. Malik," the first man says, putting a hand on the small of the boy’s back. "What do you think?" 

The boy looks at Harry, up and down, pursing his lips. 

"Threesomes cost extra," Harry says, into the silence, only half-joking, and the boy huffs out a soft laugh and ignores him. 

"He’s pretty," he says to the first man. "Bit greasy, though." 

"Greasy can be cleaned," the first man says, and Harry hunches over further, chewing his bottom lip. He should run from these people, probably. They might be rich but they also might be serial killers. God, Harry’s got the worst instincts for people, which is why he got roughed up last month and didn’t get paid for the blowjob he gave to the man who did it. 

The boy nods, slowly. 

"What’s your name?" he says suddenly. 

Harry looks across the street and doesn’t answer. He’s starting to properly feel the cold now, in his legs and down the back of his neck. 

"Does it matter?" the man says. "At this point?"

"I want to know." The boy keeps looking at him. "Hair needs a cut, doesn’t it." 

"Yours did too," the first man says, looking amused. "We cleaned you up, didn’t we?" 

The boy ignores him, steps behind Harry and looks at his arse. Harry swallows unsteadily. 

"Yeah," the boy says, stepping back. "He’s cute." 

"Where are you from?" the man asks Harry, watching him. 

Harry wants to say _none of your bloody fucking business_ , but if he does that they might go away, and rent’s due in two days. 

"Pay for it?" he says, cheekily, grinning at them both. 

The boy keeps watching him like he’s an experiment, and with a huff, the first man digs in his pocket, comes out with a black leather wallet. 

He hands Harry a five-pound note, and Harry shoves it in his pocket, thrilling with the victory. This could work out, maybe, if they keep going with it. Five pounds for his hometown, imagine what they’ll pay for a blowjob. 

"Holmes Chapel," he says. 

"Northern lad," the boy says. "That’s good. Northern lads are sweet. Good talkers, too." 

"And how old are you?" the man says. 

Harry holds out his palm. 

"Good god," the man mutters, putting another note into his hand. 

"Eighteen," Harry says, pushing the money into his pocket. "I’m eighteen." 

"You lying?" the younger bloke says, raising one perfectly-plucked eyebrow. 

Harry shakes his head. 

"Got an ID on you?" the boy says next. 

Harry shakes his head. That’s a lie; he does have an ID. But he’s got a feeling that would be stupid. That’d be showing his hand.

"How much education have you completed?" the older man asks. He’s got the tone of someone who’s taking notes, but he isn’t - he’s just watching. 

"Through sixth-form." 

"Done your A-levels?" the boy asks. 

Harry nods. 

"Passed them all?" 

He nods again. 

"That’s good," the boy says. "What’s your favorite book?" 

The man snorts, looks at the boy sideways. “Favorite book, Malik?” 

"People like if you can carry on a decent conversation," the boy says quietly. "It’s not like out here, where they can’t be bothered as long as you know how to suck a dick." 

“ _Tales of Ordinary Madness_ ,” Harry blurts out, dropping his arm from where it’s crossed over his chest. “It’s by-“ 

"Bukowski," the boy says, with a flicker in his eyes. "Interesting." 

Harry swallows. “I’ve been reading _The Essential Rumi_. Too. Also. I mean.” 

The boy tilts his head, watching him. “And do you like it?” 

Harry nods, too many times. He does. He does like it. It makes his chest hurt, sometimes, but he likes it a lot. 

"Rumi and Bukowski," the boy says. "They’re very different."

"Not that different, though," Harry says, shakily. 

"Oh?" 

"I mean. Both, uh, both are about, uh, trying to get to the truth. The real things in life.  Not the things that aren’t important. You know, like, the immaterial…" 

He trails off, feeling stupid, and the boy’s mouth curves up at the corner.

"Interesting analysis," he says, and it doesn’t sound mean. He turns to the man. "He’s good." 

"There is something quite fascinating about him," the man murmurs. "How long have you been doing what you do?" 

Harry’s got a feeling it won’t go over well if he keeps asking for money with every question. 

"Four months," he says. 

"Must be tired of it, huh," the man says, sounding kind for the first time.  

Harry watches him suspiciously. 

"It’s alright," he says. 

The boy huffs a laugh, his eyes cool when they meet Harry’s, and Harry feels an unexpected wash of embarrassment. 

"Can I buy you dinner?" the man asks, and something that’s not exactly just hunger makes Harry nod, quickly. 

The man doesn’t look at the other boy when he says, “Zayn, bring the car around, we’ll be in the - chicken place, whatever it’s called.” 

Harry watches as the boy turns around without a word, pulling a set of keys out of his pocket. 

"What’s he, like, your assistant or summat?" Harry says. "Who are you, anyway? Why d’you want me?" 

"So many questions," the man says, putting a hand on his back to escort him over the curb, and for some reason the touch makes Harry feel comfortable. "Let’s sit down, before we get into it, how ‘bout." 

They sit down over a plate of chicken thighs and chips, Harry trying his hardest not to shovel it into his mouth. He’s _starved_ , alright. It’s been a tight few weeks. 

He’s a bit embarrassed when he comes up for air and the man is watching him, sipping a cup of tea, looking faintly amused. 

"Sorry," Harry says, wiping his wrist over his mouth, fingers sticky with peri-peri sauce. "I, uh. It’s really good. Thanks." 

"Of course," the man murmurs, as the shop door creaks open and Harry sees the boy - Zayn - coming in, tucking the car keys into his jacket pocket and looking around in visible distaste. 

He sits in the chair next to the man, and Harry straightens up, watching him. God, he’s pretty. Harry’s not sure what these people want, but at least he’s gotten a free meal and a glimpse at Zayn’s cheekbones. All in all, a good night. 

"Ready to tell me your name yet?" the man says. 

"What’s yours?" Harry asks, eating a chip in two bites. 

"Can you answer his bloody question?" Zayn snaps, and the man looks at him sharply. 

Zayn shuts up. Harry watches his throat work in a swallow, his eyes drop submissively. 

"My name is Simon." The man - Simon, Harry supposes - takes another slow sip of tea. "And I have a business opportunity for you, if you’re willing to listen." 

Harry looks from Simon to Zayn, then back to Simon. 

"Yeah," he says, shrugging. "Alright." 

———

The next day, Harry meets Zayn at his flat in London to begin. He’s not entirely sure what he’s beginning, despite Simon’s explanations the night before, but he’s game. He’ll probably get another free meal out of it, and Zayn doesn’t seem like he could kill Harry in cold blood. He’s got skinny little arms. 

Zayn lives in a building full of loft flats in a fairly nice part of London. His building’s got an _elevator_. Harry knows that’s not really a big deal, but he’s currently on the sixth story of a shitty walk-up in East London with moldy stairwells that set off his asthma something awful. 

Zayn’s place has high ceilings and shiny wooden floors and two rooms - just for Zayn, two whole _rooms_. Harry feels a rush of something when he steps inside, wild and desperate. He wants this. He wants it so much. 

"Would you like some tea?" Zayn asks, shutting the door behind Harry, and Harry nods, dumbstruck, pushing his bag up his shoulder. 

"You keep that bag with you," Zayn says, as Harry trails behind him into the small but spotless kitchen. "You’re not homeless, are you?" 

"No," Harry says, pulling a face at his back. Never mind that he’s fast approaching it if he doesn’t make rent this month. "I just - I keep some stuff with me. My flatmate’s a klepto." 

Zayn hums, uninterested, and says, “Earl Grey alright?” 

"Yeah." Harry peers around the room. There’s a small kitchen table, two chairs. Shiny tile floor, a countertop with a few things scattered over it - half a loaf of bread, a box of tea, a jar of what looks like marmalade. He’s still taking it all in when Zayn slides a cup of tea across the counter to him, says, "Sugar’s on the table." 

Harry nods, picking up the cup. 

"Your flat is really wicked," he says. "It’s so posh." 

Zayn looks at him, eyes cool. 

"Thank you," he says. "And if we’re starting this now, here’s your first lesson. Always say thank you when someone gives something to you, and don’t act too impressed by money." 

Harry’s halfway through a sip of his tea, and he chokes a little, mumbles, “Yeah, I- sorry. Thanks for the tea. Uh. Sorry.” 

Zayn sips his own tea. 

"What’s your background like?" he says, sliding into a seat at the table. Harry sits at the other. "Money, parents. Family. Etc." 

Harry chews his lip, takes a gulp of his tea to stall. 

"It could be me asking these questions, or it could be Simon," Zayn says, voice flat. "It’s important he knows everything about you before you start working for him."  

"At least Simon likes me," Harry mutters. 

He flushes, and looks up after a second. Zayn’s watching him. 

"What makes you think I don’t like you?" he says, sipping his tea. 

Harry stares into his tea. 

"Born in Holmes Chapel," he says, instead of answering Zayn’s question. "Got a mum and an older sister. Parents got divorced when I was seven. I still see my dad sometimes. My mum’s been married, uh. Three times now. My sister’s in uni in Manchester." 

Zayn nods. “Did you have money, growing up?” 

What a question. Harry thinks - not for the first time- that maybe he shouldn’t have agreed to try this. 

But Zayn’s alright, even if he seems cold. And Harry was so, so sick of standing on a street corner and selling his arse. He was so sick of it. 

"Uh, enough," Harry says. "Got tight for a while when I was younger. But. I dunno. I was never too hard-up." 

"Why’d you come to London?" 

"Was in a band," Harry mumbles. "We split up after a few months, they all moved back home. I stayed." 

Zayn nods, slowly. “Said you’ve been working for four months on the street, yeah?” 

Harry nods. 

"And do you like doing that?" 

Harry chews his lip again. 

"Does anyone really like it?" he says, and Zayn’s mouth curves up just the slightest bit, even as his eyes stay neutral. 

"Fair point," he murmurs. "I guess I mean, how did you fancy having sex in exchange for money? Were you alright with it? Does it make you feel sick?" 

Harry thinks about the question. It wasn’t the worst part of his life in London - the worst was trying to make rent, and his arsehole flatmate, and standing around on the corner, and people who were mean. The actual sex wasn’t that bad. Harry’s always enjoyed a bit of sex, and sometimes, on good nights, the money felt like a bonus. 

That started getting more rare near the end, as the nights got colder and the people got, well. Worse.

"It was alright," he says. "Didn’t make me sick. People said I’m good at it, so." 

Zayn nods again, sips his tea. 

"Did you ever do it?" Harry asks boldly, watching his face. Zayn’s fingers clench around the handle of the mug, but he puts it down slowly. "Sell your arse on the street?" 

"What I did or didn’t do isn’t important," Zayn says levelly. 

"Simon said you needed a haircut, too," Harry says, not letting it go. "When they found you." 

"It’s not important," Zayn says, a bit louder. "What you should care about is making yourself bloody presentable so you’re not back out there next week freezing your nuts off." 

He lets out a long breath, and then sips his tea. 

"This can be a good thing for you," he says. "Being one of Simon’s employees. He’s a good boss, he takes care of us, and the pay is good. But if you don’t learn quick, it’s not going to happen." 

"You learned quick," Harry says, tilting his head. "Right? That’s why you’ve got this fancy flat and all those nice clothes?" 

Zayn looks at him for a split second, then away. “It isn’t just having sex,” he says, ignoring Harry. “That’s the difference, between this and what you did before. It’s not just putting your mouth on someone’s dick for five quid.” 

"Scuse me, I never sucked dick for a fiver," Harry says, reaching across the table and grabbing a biscuit from the dish next to the sugar bowl. Zayn hasn’t touched them so Harry didn’t either, but sod it all. If he’s gonna get a lecture, he’s gonna eat. 

He shoves half of it in his mouth in one go. “I do have some standards. Ten pounds or bust, at _least_.”  

He can _feel_ the eyeroll Zayn suppresses. 

"It’s about an experience," he continues. "It’s about a level of quality in manner, intellect, and the physical-" 

"Mate, I know what a high-class hooker is," Harry says, chewing obnoxiously loud. Something about Zayn makes him want to act like a little shit. Gemma always said he was too contrary for his own good, but too passive to really tell someone how he feels. "Don’t go pretending it’s rocket science. Have a chat, have a laugh, act sweet, get him off." 

"Oh, you know, do you?" Zayn says, arching an eyebrow. "You ever worked in kink before?" 

"What, like getting tied up?" Harry says, reaching for another biscuit. "Not for money. My girlfriend in sixth-form tied my wrists together once. It was hot." 

"Not just getting tied up." Zayn looks irritated. "Listen, when you work the street, you and the john both know that he isn’t paying nearly bloody enough for you to pretend to enjoy it. Sure, you might moan a little bit around his dick for a tip, pretend it’s getting you hard, but at the end of the day he’s paying you for your mouth and _just_ your mouth. Or your hand, or your arse. Whatever.” 

Harry licks crumbs off his fingers, doesn’t say anything. Zayn’s _definitely_ been a rentboy. Which is a bit funny in its own way. He’s so pretty, like a show dog. It’s hard to imagine him crawling into the front seat of a van and going down on someone. 

"But this is different," Zayn says, leaning forward. "They’re paying for an experience. For genuine attraction. They’ll want you to get off on it just as much as they do, they’ll want you to be into it. They’ll want you to offer yourself up before they ask, like you’re their boyfriend and you’ve never wanted anything more in your life." 

Harry crunches a bite of biscuit. “Sounds a bit pathetic.” 

A muscle in Zayn’s jaw tightens. “They can smell pity,” he says. “Trust me, I know. And they won’t want to come back to you.” 

Harry shrugs. “I’m a pretty good actor.” 

"Let’s say you’re getting fucked," Zayn says, leaning back in his seat, watching Harry over the rim of his mug. "By some old bloke who’s taken pills to keep his dick hard. Let’s say he puts a hand around your throat and says _who’s my pretty little girl? Who’s a pretty little girl for Daddy_? What’re you gonna do, you gonna make a face, or are you going to play along?” 

Harry considers it, licking his fingers, and then says, in a low purr of a voice - “I am, daddy. I’m your little girl.” 

He tosses his head back, sighs in faux pleasure, groans out _daddy -_ and then sits back in his seat and pops the last piece of biscuit in his mouth. Grins.

Zayn watches him, a small twitch at the corner of his mouth the only indication of his approval. 

"You think you’re incredibly bloody clever, don’t you?" he says. 

"No," Harry says honestly. "I just think I’m not as dumb as you think I am." 

Zayn looks away, rubbing a palm over his smooth-shaven jaw. His eyelashes are incredible, dark and thick and curled. Harry stares at them for a moment, then swallows. 

"I don’t think you’re dumb," Zayn says, haltingly, like it’s difficult for him to admit. "I just. I’d just like you to be prepared, because I wasn’t." 

Harry scoots forward in his chair, interested. “You mean after Simon plucked you up off a street corner?” he says, solemnly, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Tell me all about the street corner.”

Zayn lets out a hesitant little laugh, like he can’t tell if Harry’s making fun of him. “Finish - finish your bloody tea and let me show you a couple things you’ll need to know before you start working.” 

Harry gulps the rest of his tea down, and right then - the bitter last dregs of his tea making his tongue rasp and Zayn watching him from across the table - he decides to give it a go. 

It can’t be _worse_ , right? 

**ZAYN**

Zayn looks up from his fag just as it lights. Ben’s holding the door open for a woman behind him and then stepping out, peering down the street like he’s waiting for someone. He sees Zayn, nods, mouth curling into that warm familiar sort of smile he used to get whenever they saw each other.

Fucking  _hell_ , Ben Winston. It’s been ages. It's been six months since Ben started seeing Harry - the freshest blood in the agency - and longer than that since he last asked for Zayn. Zayn looks back down at his cigarette. 

"Mr. Malik," Ben says warmly, touching the small of Zayn’s back through his thick camel-colored coat. "Fancy meeting you out here." 

Zayn just takes a drag, blows it out. He’s aware of the way he’s acting differently, even just one second in - standing up a bit straighter, licking his mouth so it’s shiny, so Ben looks at it and notices. He hates that he still does this, but. What’s that saying? You never forget your first? 

Ben was Zayn’s first real client. 

That’s all. _Client_.

"Mind if I bum one?" Ben says, with an apologetic smile, like he’s not got a net worth of seven hundred million. Think he’d be able to buy his own fags. 

Zayn shrugs, fumbles in the pocket of his jacket and takes out the pack of Gitanes that’s already almost half-empty. 

"You smoke the most pretentious fags," Ben says once he’s got one between his fingers, as he takes Zayn’s lighter out of his hand and flicks it, takes a deep drag. 

"I like them." 

"They’re just _French_. Don’t act like a connoisseur, Zayn, I could put Marlboro Reds in your pack and you’d smoke ‘em without even noticing the difference.” 

Zayn smiles tightly around his cigarette, gives Ben the finger, and Ben just laughs at him, eyes crinkly and fond. 

"Where’s Harry?" Zayn says, exhaling a cloud of smoke. 

"Ah, in the toilet," Ben says, waving a hand. "He’s a sweetheart, isn’t he?" 

"He’s a good kid," Zayn says after a minute. 

"Very charming. And a lovely arse." 

Zayn sucks on his cigarette, because the things he wants to say aren’t appropriate, or nice, or pleasant. 

"He’s been lovely company," Ben says softly. 

"Good," Zayn manages to say. "I’m glad." 

There’s a pause, as they both smoke. 

"How’ve you been?" Ben asks. "How’s business?" 

"Been fine." Zayn really wishes Harry would come outside now. 

"Anyone interesting? You know I love a bit of nasty gossip." 

"Confidentiality, so," Zayn says, flicking his lighter a couple times. 

"Never stopped you before, did it?" 

Zayn looks up at him, sharply. Ben’s gazing at him, looking amused, his mouth curled just a bit. 

"No one interesting," Zayn says. "But then there never really is." 

There’s something unspoken that hangs in the air after that. _You were_ , is what Zayn means. _You were interesting_. 

"Just a bunch of old, rich perverts," Ben says, with his mouth still quirked with amusement. "Isn’t that right." 

"That’s right." 

"We had a good time, didn’t we," Ben says quietly. "You and me." 

God, he can’t just bloody - _say_ shit like that. Zayn doesn’t look at him, just takes another long suck on his fag, steeling himself.

"You say that to everyone you’ve sacked?" Zayn says, and immediately regrets it. He sounds like a child. Like a petulant child. His stomach goes hot with embarrassment.

Ben just breathes out, audibly. 

"Sacked," he says, considering the word. "Is that what you think happened?" 

"I don’t want to talk about this-" 

“ _Sacked_ ,” Ben says. “More like, I fell a bit in love with you and that wasn’t bloody allowed.” 

Zayn makes a sound like a laugh, but it doesn’t feel like one. “You weren’t in love with me.” 

"Yes, I was," Ben says, very low. "I left my wife for you, Zayn." 

Zayn scrubs a hand over his face. “You think it’s my bloody fault you got a divorce-“ 

"I explained to you why I-" 

"You paid me for sex," Zayn says, forcing a laugh. "That’s it, Ben." 

"Don’t fucking act like what we were was all bloody professional," Ben says, sounding angry for the first time. His voice is tight. "Don’t act like that. You think I don’t know what you sound like when you’re lying?" 

"You don’t know anything about me," Zayn lies, fag burning down in one hand. 

"You told me - stuff," Ben says. "That you never told anyone. You slept in my bed and you - you told me all those things. Unless you made all that up. Did you make all that up, Zayn? About your family? Those things you did when you were younger?" 

"Don’t," Zayn says, loudly, his ears buzzing with something like panic. "Shut your fucking mouth." 

"You always fucking _pushed_ me,” Ben says, sounding angry but calm, his voice hushed. “I forgot that about you, how you push me.” 

Zayn didn’t forget about it. 

"And Harry’s sweet, he’s such a sweet kid," Ben says softly, stepping close to Zayn, all expensive black jacket and rich cologne. Zayn drops the fag, grinds his toe on it hard, feeling his skin prickle in anticipation. "Nothing like you, though." 

Zayn closes his eyes, and opens his mouth, because Ben is about to kiss him. 

Ben does, softly, his bottom lip catching roughly against Zayn’s and his hand coming up to stroke against Zayn’s cheek. 

His hand slips down, fingers tightening possessively against the side of Zayn’s neck, and then he steps back, and Zayn forces his eyes open. His mouth is tingling. 

Ben’s staring at him, dark-eyed. Zayn looks at his mouth helplessly. He wants that again. He forgot the way Ben kissed, the way it felt like being taken care of. 

"Don’t act like you felt nothing," Ben murmurs, and turns around just as the door opens, Harry piling out in a flurry of fluffy scarf and big grin and long legs, apologizing for taking so long, there was _the worst queue, and this bloke had to go so bad I felt awful I left him cut in front of me_ - 

Zayn lights another cigarette, lets Harry bounce up to him and give him a sweet kiss on the cheek, whispering in Zayn’s ear, “See you tomorrow?” 

Ben stays behind him, checking his phone. 

"Yeah," Zayn says, brushing a piece of fluff off Harry’s flushed-pink cheek, straightening the lapels of the buttery-smooth leather jacket Ben bought Harry last month. "Have fun." 

Harry nods, and Ben looks up over his head, gives Zayn a nod and puts his hand on the small of Harry’s back to turn him away. 

And then they’re slipping into the back of a waiting black car. Gone. 

Zayn smokes the whole fag standing right there, digging his free hand into the thick, plush pocket of his jacket and shivering against the cold. 

He calls Simon after a few minutes, tells him he wants to work, and Simon gives him an address. The man at the address is old and posh and alone and he looks Zayn up and down with a critical eye, muttering something that sounds vaguely racist. Zayn’s cheeks go red but he stays, because he needs the money - he _wants_ the money - and Ben’s with Harry right now, letting Harry bounce on his dick in Ben’s gorgeous Belgravia flat, and Zayn hates that he even gives a shit where Ben is. 

He hates it. He wishes, not for the first time, that he could just stop having feelings entirely. 

The man asks Zayn to undress and put on a pair of black lacy knickers and organize a bookshelf, all while he rubs himself through his trousers and looks at Zayn with his eyes dark. Something about it feels degrading, even though Zayn hasn’t even seen the man’s cock. Something about it makes him feel on the edge of tears the entire time, keeping his face turned away and perfectly blank. 

"Come here," the man says, after the books are sorted. He has a lot of books, dusty and hardcover and heavy - volumes of law, encyclopedias, Faulkner, Hemingway, books of poetry. 

Zayn turns, and the man pats the seat next to him. 

Zayn sits, keeping his back straight. His throat feels prickly. 

"I’d like you to go into the kitchen and make me a cup of tea," the man says. "Earl Grey. It’s in the cupboard. Two sugars." 

He runs a hand over Zayn’s naked thigh, lightly, like he’s dusting off a piece of furniture. 

Zayn nods, clearing his throat, and stands up.

The kitchen is quiet, refrigerator humming. There’s a photo on the fridge, stuck with a small black magnet - a girl in a graduation cap, dark hair, a wide happy smile. Zayn stares at it as the kettle boils. It’s an odd thing to be (mostly) naked in a kitchen, and Zayn’s been naked in a lot of odd places. It still feels - just. Strange. 

Zayn wonders whose knickers he’s wearing. 

The tea boils quick, and Zayn tries three different drawers to find a spoon, stirs in two sugar cubes from the bowl on the countertop. 

He brings it back out to the man, and the man says, “Thank you. That’ll be all.” 

Zayn stands there wrong-footed, surprised. “I - that’s. That’s it?” 

The man sips his tea, looks up at him. 

"That’s it," he says, his face impassive. "I believe the payment’s already been taken care of with your manager." 

Zayn nods. 

"You can leave the underwear in the bathroom," the man says, looking away from him. "Where you changed." 

"Thanks," Zayn says, and flushes, feeling stupid. "I mean. Uh. I hope that was alright." 

"It was fine." The man gives him a long look, dragging his eyes down Zayn’s torso. "Thank you." 

"Thanks," Zayn mumbles. 

His clothes are in a pile on the bathroom floor, and he strips out of the knickers, folds them awkwardly and places them on top of the closed toilet. When he’s dressed he looks at himself in the mirror. 

He doesn’t have photos from before Simon picked him up at a bar, that Saturday night five years ago in East London. When Zayn left home he didn’t bring any photos. At the time it didn’t seem necessary.

He looked different, though. He remembers how different he looked before Simon polished him up.

The man doesn’t move, as Zayn slips out of the front door the way he came. He pulls out of the long driveway slowly, and for some reason for a minute his eyes go hot and he has to suck in a couple deep breaths to stave off a sob. 

He checks his phone before he pulls out onto the street. There’s a text from Simon: _Easy money, eh? Call when you’re done._

Zayn lifts the phone to his ear. 

"Hello?" Simon says. He sounds drunk. "Malik?" 

"Yeah," Zayn says. "I’m on my way out." 

"Fucking simple, innit?" Simon roars. Definitely drunk. "Pays out the arse for it, though. Hope you were sweet." 

"I’m always sweet," Zayn says distractedly, as he switches lanes, tucking the phone on his shoulder to grasp the wheel with both hands. 

Simon laughs for an unnecessarily long amount of time. “Feel like being sweet for a couple friends over at my place? Jess is here but she could always use the company. A grand for a few hours?” 

"I’m exhausted," Zayn says. "Cheers, though." 

"Next time. My friends are nice, Malik, they don’t bite. I'd like to see you here." 

Zayn laughs tiredly. “Do they tip well?” 

"Always." Simon breaks off to laugh at something someone’s yelling in the background. "Good night, then. You saw Harry off safely with Mr. Winston?" 

"Yeah," Zayn breathes. "They’re all good. Night, Simon." 

Simon hangs up. Zayn puts his phone down, and breathes out hard, and hits the gas pedal.

\---

Next week he has a dinner with Harry that turns into a club night with a few girls from the agency, Jade and Aria and this new redhead Zayn had never met before. It's fun, actually, until Simon shows up and buys them drinks and takes Zayn into the toilet, coaxes him down onto his knees. 

That part's not that fun. But free drinks, and on the cab ride home Harry is happy and cuddly, slurring about how they _totally have to do this more often_ , and Zayn can't begrudge him that. 

When they get in from the club, Harry falls asleep fast, dropping into Zayn’s bed, rolling over, snuffling like a toddler before Zayn even turns the lights out. It’s sweet, but then mostly everything Harry does is sweet. 

If Zayn were younger, he’d be jealous, probably. Harry’s got this face that people want to protect, that people gravitate towards. It’s _cute_. Zayn knows that he himself is quite fit - pretty eyelashes, men have told him, and beautiful cheekbones. _Gorgeous_ , they say.

But not cute. 

Even when Zayn was younger, when he was a kid, and Yaser’s old uni friend came over to their house for dinner and looked at him a little longer than necessary- Zayn knew he wasn’t cute. 

_Sexy_ , Alec used to call him, when Zayn was fourteen and wasn’t sexy at all and his body felt clumsy and strange while they touched each other, secretly, when Zayn’s parents were out of the house. _You’re so sexy, god, I can’t keep my hands off you_. 

Zayn sits up in bed the way he does when the memories start to feel too heavy, fumbles on the bedside table for his phone. 

There’s a text from Ben, and Zayn’s heart jumps in his chest before he realizes, with another jolt, that it’s not his phone he’s holding - it’s Harry’s. 

He stares at it for a second- Harry has a photo of his sister as his background, holding a fat ginger tabby cat and laughing- and then swipes it open, guiltily. He knows Harry’s passcode because he changed the song playing on Zayn’s iHome earlier while Harry was making their tea, Harry calling out from the kitchen- “Oh, it’s two-two-three-two, put on some Katy Perry please?” 

Zayn goes to Messages, clicks on the first one. 

_Night love, I’ll send a car for you at 5:30 tomorrow. Wear that suit you got last weekend. xx_

Zayn stares at it, something curdling slowly in his stomach, and then scrolls up. Two days ago they were sexting while Ben was in a meeting, and Zayn scrolls past _What would we do if i were there?_ and _yea fuck im wet_ , and a picture of Harry’s dick, thick and hard in his hand. Zayn scrolls past it all, feeling numb, the images blurring in his mind. 

He used to do this too, send Ben dirty messages during work - but God, god, Zayn doesn’t need to go down this road, of the things he used to do with Ben. Zayn fucked him, Harry fucks him, they both make money, and that’s it. Nostalgia for a client is distasteful, and unnecessary. 

Zayn puts Harry’s phone back, turning the screen black with a click of his thumb, and finds his own in the darkness. No texts, just an email from Simon, about a potential client. Zayn swipes it open, opens the intake form, shuffles back to sit against the headboard and draws his bare knees up to his chest.

Sixty-three years old, lives in Totteridge, wants a weekly engagement, no kink, just sex, and a sleep over, and affection. 

Zayn stares at it, chewing his thumbnail. Above the intake form Simon’s typed - _seems more Harry’s type but I thought I’d give you first crack. £1500/hour including PM. Email me back by noon tomorrow if you want it._

Zayn exits the email without responding, opens up a new text, enters Ben’s number. Ben’s not in his phone anymore - standard procedure when someone stops being a client- but Zayn knows it by heart. He doesn’t like to think of why.

His hand hovers over the keyboard. 

What the hell could he say, at this point? If Simon found out, he’d have Zayn’s head. It’s a strict no-no, fucking around with former clients, especially when they’re paying good money for someone else. 

It’s just, Ben kissed him. 

It felt so good Zayn hasn’t stopped thinking about it since. 

There was this one night, a few years ago. Before Harry came along. Ben asked Zayn to bring weed over, and they got high off Zayn’s tiny glass spoon pipe, sitting on the porch of Ben’s flat, looking out over the twinkling London lights and smoking. Zayn’s memory’s gone all blurry now, but he remembers Ben’s hand on his thigh, and then he remembers taking off his jeans and sitting on Ben’s dick, riding him outside with his arms around Ben’s neck and Ben whispering, kissing his ear, stroking his face. 

The next morning they were cotton-mouthed and fumbly and Zayn had slept over, even though he wasn’t strictly required, and Ben ran his hand over Zayn’s side and said softly _Good morning, Mr. Malik_ , and right then Zayn felt like he was in love. He felt warmed, in the pit of his stomach. He sucked Ben off and Ben poured him a bowl of cereal afterwards (he couldn’t cook for shit, he could never cook for shit) and Zayn ate it at the kitchen counter with his feet tucked up on a stool, feeling sleepy and content and cared-for. Zayn didn’t tell Simon, afterwards, about how he’d stayed, about how he’d hooked up with Ben again without charging. He kept it just for himself.

God, he was stupid. 

Zayn closes out of the new message box, sets his phone down and slides back into bed next to Harry. Harry grunts softly in his throat like a sleepy puppy, rolls over and into Zayn’s side, slinging an arm around Zayn’s waist. It’s warm and it should be comforting, but Zayn shoves him off as carefully as he can, not wanting anyone’s hands on him right that second. 

He stares up at the ceiling, listens to Harry breathe, until finally his eyes close. 

**HARRY**

"Let me uppp, Zayner!" Harry calls into the intercom, and the buzzer goes. Good. Zayn’s awake then, which is rare for a morning, but it’s nearly noon anyway. Harry yanks the doorknob, clatters up two flights of stairs and nearly falls when Zayn opens the door just as Harry’s about to pound on it. 

"Whoa," Zayn laughs, catching his weight, staggering back. "Jesus, Harry, relax." 

"I’m relaxed," Harry says, wrapping his arms around Zayn’s waist. "Hi." 

"Hi." Zayn pats his head a few times, then unwinds Harry’s arms from his person. "You want a brew?" 

"Please." Harry fumbles his scarf off his neck, hooks it over Zayn’s coatrack. He loves Zayn’s flat, has since the first time he was allowed inside, a full year ago, now. 

Harry’s got his own nice place now, just down the street. His own high ceilings and wooden floors and elevator. But he still loves Zayn’s. 

He wanders into the kitchen, kicking off his Converse. It’s a day off, which means looser jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers. Zayn’s in sweatpants, which is a sight that Harry only became privy to about a year ago. He didn’t believe it the first time. Harry had always seen Zayn wearing dark trousers and skinny suit jackets and, if he wasn’t working, tight well-cut jeans and V-neck tees. 

It took him a while to figure out that Zayn was simpler than he first thought. Zayn likes his time off, he likes a night alone, he likes a good book and a rolled joint and a comfortable sofa. 

He also likes Harry, now, and Harry’s pretty bloody proud of that fact. 

Zayn’s pouring out the tea, yawning, his back to Harry. His feet are bare, t-shirt riding up to show the narrow line of his waist, an earring sparkling in one ear. Harry’s hit with a sudden wave of affection, and he wraps himself around Zayn from behind, hooks his chin over Zayn’s shoulder. 

"Whatcha doin?" he says, nuzzling against Zayn’s neck. 

Zayn snorts, grabbing the sugarbowl, back muscles shifting under Harry’s chest. “Making you tea, idiot.” 

"I mean today. What’ve you been doing." 

Zayn shrugs. “Not much.” 

"Me neither." Harry has to move away from Zayn to grab his tea, but after a sip or two he slides back in under Zayn’s arm, puts it around his shoulder. 

Zayn sighs, but Harry knows him by now, and that’s his I’m-only-pretending-to-be-annoyed sigh. Not his I’m-really-actually-irritated sigh. It’s a subtle difference. 

"Had this party last night," Harry says, gulping his tea, walking Zayn over to the sofa. Zayn’s cursing every time a drop of tea slops out of his mug, batting at Harry’s arm with one hand. "This bloke - did something in fashion. Don’t remember. He bought me all these drinks. Apple drinks and something that tasted like liquorice."  

"Anise liqueur," Zayn says. "Maybe." 

"Anise liqueur," Harry says, and snorts. "Ha. Anus licker." 

"That was awful," Zayn says, setting his tea down before he sits on the sofa. "You’re an actual child-" 

"You love me." 

Zayn just rolls his eyes. His face is scrubbed clean of any makeup, and there’s a dusting of freckles on the bridge of his nose. He’s still got the longest eyelashes, even without the bit of dark brown mascara Harry’s watched him put on before he works. 

"You’re pretty," Harry says dreamily, and Zayn rolls his eyes again, goes a bit pink around the cheeks.

"Don’t be an idiot, Harry," he mutters, and fumbles for the remote. "You working tonight?" 

Harry shakes his head. “Got the night off. Luuuucky Harry.” 

"What have I said about talking in third person?" 

Harry grins. “Not to?”

"Exactly," Zayn breathes, and turns the television on. 

"Why, are you working tonight?" Harry asks belatedly, after a few minutes of staring at a rerun of Corrie that he can’t really follow. 

"Yeah," Zayn says. "That bloke out in Moor Park." 

"The one with the mansion? Who took you to that party at Shoreditch?" 

"That’s the one." 

Harry nods, tugging a blanket over his lap and grabbing one of Zayn’s cosy printed pillows. “Could be fun.” 

"No party tonight, though," Zayn says, tucking one leg up to his chest on the sofa. "Just wants me at his place. Having a couple friends over, I’ve got to serve some drinks, be available." 

Harry pulls a face, rubbing his hand over Zayn’s knee in his soft sweatpants. He hates that most of the time -  a couple people, small parties, getting passed around. He prefers big events, lots of people, lots of excitement, and then a dirty shag in the toilet or the cab home. People’ll pay a lot for that, for the whole boyfriend experience. 

They pay a lot for smaller parties, though, too. Simon gets them to. He says it’s like four separate jobs at once, and they’ve got to pay accordingly if they want to partake. 

"I’ll make you tea if you can’t walk tomorrow," he says loyally, and Zayn laughs, rubs a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. 

"Let’s hope that’s not the case, but. Cheers." 

"When’re you getting back?" 

"Tomorrow morning. Probably around eleven. Said he’d call for a car." 

Harry hums, leaning his head against Zayn’s shoulder. “Posh.” 

Zayn nods slowly. 

"Yeah," he says, a minute later. "Sure it’ll be fine." 

"Yeah, m’sure," Harry mumbles against Zayn’s neck, drowsily, and Zayn puts an arm around him as Harry drifts into sleep. 

He wakes up to an empty sofa and late-afternoon sun shooting through the blinds. 

"Zayn?" he calls, lying on his back on the couch, not willing to get up. "You here?" 

"Yeah, babe!" Zayn calls back. "Getting dressed!" 

Harry’s phone vibrates on the coffee table, and he fumbles for it, covering a yawn with one hand. It’s an email from one of Harry’s clients, a woman - Elise is her name. A divorcee with three kids who likes to bring Harry round and get drunk and fuck on the sofa.  

_Are you free tonight, Harry darling??? Around ten?_

Harry hums in his throat. 

"Zayn!" he yells at the top of his lungs, and Zayn says from about three feet away, "What? God, don’t scream at me." 

"Oops," Harry laughs, stretching his feet out over the armrest of Zayn’s sofa. "Think I should pick up a job tonight? That woman I told you about." 

"With the kids?" 

"Yeah." 

Zayn shrugs. “If you’re up for it.” 

Harry stares at his email, then opens a reply, types back, _yes sounds good. see you then love xx._

_\---_

Harry’s phone starts buzzing on his nightstand, and he rolls over in bed, moans at the way his head starts throbbing, and grabs for it. 

"Morning," he mutters. 

"Sweetheart," a voice says. Low, London-accented, warm. Ben. Harry grins. "It’s two in the afternoon." 

"Mmgh," Harry sighs, arching his back in bed, popping his joints and groaning happily. "Is it? Good afternoon, then, Mr. Winston." 

"Christ, you’re shameless," Ben says, sounding amused. "Were you a bit drunk last night, darling?" 

"Maybe I’m just lazy," Harry murmurs, digging his head back into the soft feather-filled pillow, though the truth is he was quite drunk. He nearly vommed while his face was buried between Elise’s legs. God, he hopes she didn’t notice, since she was completely pissed herself. "Maybe I just like to stay in bed." 

"I’d like to see you in bed," Ben says back, predictably. "And I’d like to keep you in bed, but unfortunately I’m at work. I just wanted to remind you, I’m sending a car for you at 6:00 PM. Be prompt, please." 

"You’re at work?" Harry pouts, running his hand down his stomach into his briefs. He can’t even count how many conversations have started with Ben being at work and ended up with them jerking off over the phone. "Are you in your office?" 

"Don’t start, sweetheart," Ben laughs. "I’m about to go into a meeting and I need to think about tapping the U.S. market, not how bloody sexy you probably look right now." 

"I do look pretty sexy," Harry says with satisfaction, even though his face is probably all puffy from sleep and too much wine and his hair’s a mess. 

"I’m sure you do. Be ready tonight, alright, Harry love? And wear something-" 

"Tight?" Harry suggests, grinning.

"Mm. Something edible," Ben murmurs, voice rough. "Look as beautiful as you are." 

Harry knows what that means- jeans so tight they’re hard to zip, something that shows off his chest, something sheer and kind of slutty so he looks like a dumb, pretty, easy model. He knows what Ben likes to see, at parties with all his movie-making friends. 

"Will do," Harry says. "See you tonight." 

"Can’t wait," Ben says softly. "Have a good day, sweetheart." 

"You too." 

He rings off and sits up in bed, rubbing at his temples, sends a text to Zayn.

_heyyy fancy getting breakfast ???? my head hurts :( x_

Zayn doesn’t answer immediately, so Harry tosses his phone aside and stands up, stretches luxuriously. The afternoon sun is warm and golden through his blinds, and London is buzzing outside, and Harry feels very, very good. 

He takes a shower, touches his arsehole to check his wax job is holding up - he might need to make an appointment, but Ben’s never been bothered by a bit of hair. In fact he seems to like it, sometimes. Gets real hungry and fascinated by Harry’s arse, pulls him open, fingers him slow. 

Harry sighs, tugging at his dick a few times at the memory and then holding off. He wants to be keyed up for tonight, in case Ben wants to fuck him in the toilet at some point. Ben’s not that wild most of the time, but once he gets a few drinks in him he can’t keep his hands off Harry. 

Harry turns the shower off, runs a hand through his wet hair and shakes it out, wanders back into his room, dripping everywhere. There’s a text from Zayn on his phone, and he dries his hand off cursorily on his duvet before he picks it up. 

_breakfast? babe it’s 2:30. i’m at the salon won’t be home til four, what about tomorrow?_

Harry pouts, sends back _alrighttt fine how bout like 10am at pain et chocolat_ , and tosses his phone aside again, goes back into the toilet to rub product through his hair. It’s some organic yet chemical-smelling serum he bought while fucking around in Sephora the other day while Zayn picked up a weirdly-specific list of makeup a client wanted him to wear. That’s one thing Zayn does a lot more than Harry, wear makeup. Whenever Harry gets made up he looks sort of cheap and sloppy, like a low-rent drag queen at some cheap pub in the country, the childlike roundness of his face emphasized by blush and powder. Zayn looks exquisite, and fine-boned, and beautiful. 

Harry can wear knickers with the best of them, though. They make his arse look _fantastic_. 

When he’s done fucking with his hair he scrunches it to let the curls come in, pads into the kitchen and peels the lid off a raspberry Greek yogurt that’s about to go off. He’s licking at his spoon, rereading his texts, when his phone buzzes in his hand. 

Zayn. 

_I’ll make a reservation for 10._

Harry smiles to himself. 

_thanks zaynie !!!!!_   
_how was last night? can you walk? Ha ha xxx_

Zayn doesn’t respond until 5:30 PM, when Harry’s putting the finishing touches on his outfit. 

He stops with his jeans unzipped, fumbles for his phone. 

_V. funny harry. it was fine, he was nice. have fun tonight x_

Harry reads the text, glances up from his phone to look at himself in the mirror - skin glowing from the pearlescent moisturizer Zayn bought him at Selfridges, hair falling in silky curls past his ears, eyes bright and excited. 

He does plan on having a bit of fun. 

_Thanks Z see you tomorrow xx_ , he types, and throws his phone aside. 

\---

The dinner is in a ballroom at Claridge’s. Ben and Harry pull up to the front of the hotel, and Harry has to swallow hard at the cameras flashing outside. He’s still not sure of how to do this, how to be looked at. The few times he’s made it into the gossip rags, they’ve called him an _unidentified friend_  or a _model_  (which is quite nice). 

"You look incredible," Ben says, rubbing Harry’s wrist under the sleeve of his sheer black shirt. "Let’s go, shall we?" 

Harry nods, and follows Ben out of the car. Ben grins graciously, keeping a hand pressed gently to the small of Harry’s back as they walk up the steps into the hotel, slowly, pausing for photos. Harry keeps his face steady, flashes that small, enigmatic smile Zayn taught him, back when he started doing this. 

It feels good after a minute, the flashing lights and the buzzing crowd. It feels warming like a hot bath, and it makes Harry’s stomach shudder with satisfaction. When they’re inside and in the quiet, Harry’s almost disappointed. 

"Alright?" Ben murmurs into his ear, rubbing Harry’s back gently. 

"Yeah," Harry says, shooting a dazzling grin at him. "All good. It’s really nice in here." 

"Can I get you a drink?" Ben asks. "We’ll mingle for a bit, then sit down for dinner at 7:00. You might find our table interesting, I hope." 

"Whatever you’re having," Harry says, and Ben kisses his cheek, wanders off to the bar. 

Harry escapes to one of the cocktail tables that are set up around the room, digs his phone out and snaps a quick photo. The ballroom is lit with sparkling crystal chandeliers, rich red velvet drapes over the windows and an arched ceiling that makes Harry feel very small. He’ll never get over places like these, really. Zayn told him, once, to never act too impressed by money, but sometimes it’s hard. 

He scans the room, thrilling with each semi-familiar face he sees - the crowd is thick with celebrities. There’s a girl off EastEnders, and Caroline Flack from the telly, and, holy fuck, David bloody Beckham. Harry stares shamelessly for a full minute, is contemplating sneaking a photo when he hears a pointed cough from next to him and turns around. 

It’s a bloke he doesn’t recognize - tall, a floppy brown quiff, big warm brown eyes and a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

"Dinner’s not served til seven, love, you look like you’re ready to pounce." He flicks his eyes over at David Beckham, and Harry flushes, feels the heat of it in his cheeks. 

"Was it that obvious?" he asks, sheepishly, peering at the man through his eyelashes. 

"A bit. Can’t blame you. It’s mad seeing him at these things, innit? Like, I couldn’t care about football if you paid me, but it’s _Becks_. He’s like, divine.” 

_Divine_. Harry coughs out a laugh into his hand, and the man grins easily back. 

"Oh, I’m sorry, was your interest of an entirely academic nature? You a big Man City fan?" 

"Man U, I think he played for, actually," Harry says, and the man rolls his eyes. 

"Man U, Man City, Man-ville, whatever." 

Harry laughs again, looks across the room to the bar. He can’t see Ben in the mess of people, but he’ll come back, Harry knows. 

In the meantime, well… 

"I’m Harry," he says to the man, who’s sipping at a glass of champagne and looking out at the crowd with his shoulders loose and relaxed, a faint smile on his face. 

"Nick," the man says, holding out a hand. "Grimshaw." 

"Waaait," Harry asks, taking his hand - he knew he recognized that voice, warm and creaky and Northern. "Like off the radio?" 

"Like off the radio, yeah," Nick says, laughing. "Wow, that’ll never get old." 

"I, uh. I like your show," Harry says, looking at him more fully now, trying to connect that face with that voice. Harry rarely wakes up to hear most of Nick’s breakfast show, but he quite fancies listening to the last hour or two while he lies in bed and pretends to read a book. 

"Thank you very much." Nick drains his champagne and sets it down. "Now don’t tell me, you’re in a film, aren’t you? Something about vampires, where the boys are shirtless for eighty percent of the time." 

Harry snorts. “No.” 

"You’re not the new estranged son off Corrie, are you? The one with the amputated leg?" 

"Noo," Harry laughs, trying to bite down his grin, which is starting to hurt his mouth, it’s so wide. "I’m not an actor." 

"Model? Did I see you at the St. Laurent show last month?" 

"Nope. Try again." 

"A popstar, then," Nick says, his eyes warm. He has a very wide smile. "Or maybe you’re indie, are you indie? You’re not in Rudimental, are you?" 

"You think I’m in Rudimental?" Harry says, laughing breathlessly. "How would I be in Rudimental?" 

"I don’t knowww, I’m only guessing!" Nick squawks, running a hand through his quiff. "Don’t tell me you’re behind the scenes or summat. You’re much too pretty to be a producer. But don’t tell my producer I said that."

"Maybe I’ll wait for you to figure it out," Harry says, cheekily, grinning when Nick pouts like a toddler. 

"Whatever you are, darling, a face like that should not be drink-less," Nick says, leaning in. "Can I get you something?" 

"Nice line," Harry says, still feeling all bubbly with amusement. He’d never say that to a client - just sigh appreciatively and murmur the name of something sweet and boozy, maybe with pineapple just as a tease. 

"Isn’t it? You wouldn’t believe how many models that’s worked on. What’ll it be, then? You look like a boy who knows his way around a cocktail menu." 

Harry laughs again - Christ, he can’t stop - and feels a hand on his back. 

"Grimmy!" Ben says from behind him, sliding a glass of red wine onto the table in front of Harry. Harry hates red wine. "Fancy seeing you here. What time do you have to wake up tomorrow, eh?" 

"That never gets old with you, does it, Winston," Nick says, leaning forward to kiss Ben’s cheek. Harry’s cheeks are red, for some reason, a knot in his stomach, and he gulps at his wine thirstily. "Five-thirty AM, not that it’s any of your business." 

"You’re a legend." 

"It’s not like I can stop living my life," Nick sighs, and then, curiously, "Who’s your friend, then?" 

"Harry, Nick, Nick, Harry-" 

"We met," Harry says, thumbing wine off his mouth. 

"Hope he hasn’t been bothering you," Ben says to Nick. "God, I can’t leave him anywhere alone." 

He squeezes Harry’s shoulder, laughing into his ear, and Nick says, “Not at all, not at all. We were just discussing drinks. Speaking of, I need a refill. If you’ll excuse me-“ 

He disappears into the crowd, and Ben stands next to Harry, sipping at his own glass, which doesn’t have wine at all but something light brown and fizzy. 

"What’s that?" Harry says, taking another large swallow of wine, resisting the urge to pinch his nose as he drinks. 

"Whiskey-ginger," Ben says absently, looking at the crowd. "Sorry I took so long, love, I got caught up chatting, you know how it is." 

"It’s alright," Harry says, and a silence falls. Harry’s thinking a tiny bit about Nick, about his warm, large face and his big hands wrapped around the delicate stem of a champagne flute. It’s odd, sometimes, in the moments when there’s nothing much to say and Harry remembers that Ben’s paying him to be here, that their relationship ends with money transferring bank accounts, that if he wanted to walk out right now he couldn’t. 

Not that he does, Harry’s not saying he does, but - it’s just. It comes back to him sometimes with a jolt. This is all fake. 

_Not fake_ , he hears Zayn saying in his head. _It’s not fake just because he’s paying for it. If you don’t believe it, he won’t believe it. So believe it_. 

Harry shakes himself, drinking the last of his wine and then taking a sip from Ben’s drink, which is sweating on the tabletop while Ben scrolls through his emails. Ahh, that’s better. Whiskey isn’t his favorite, but it’s loads better than wine, which makes his mouth feel all dry and scratchy like he’s got a cat’s tongue. As cool as it would be to have a cat's tongue, Harry doesn't like feeling it every time he bloody drinks wine.

"Shall we sit down?" Ben says, slipping his phone back into his pocket, turning his gaze on Harry, and Harry nods, lets Ben lead him away. 

Their table has eight chairs and five people, none of whom Harry recognizes or knows at all. He slides into a chair next to Ben, runs his fingers over the elaborately-folded napkin on top of his plate, gives a wan smile to the other people at the table. They don’t give him a second look. Ben starts chatting with the man on his left, and Harry’s contemplating making a run for the toilet and getting himself another drink when the empty chair next to him pulls out and Nick slides in. Last one to the table. Harry’s heart thrills like a teenager’s. 

"Angela, darling, so lovely to see you," Nick calls across the table. "Bloody floral arrangement’s blocking my view of your gorgeous face, what nerve - ahh, there it is. How are ya?" 

Harry has to suppress a giddy grin. Nick smells like cologne and vodka and he’s already pulling his napkin out of its shape, idly, like a nervous habit. 

"Ahh, what a uniquely uncomfortable chair," Nick says, half to himself, half to Harry, and then he turns his head and properly sees him, and a smile spreads over his face. 

"What luck," he says, eyes crinkling happily. "Hiya, Harry." 

"Hiya, Nick," Harry says back. "You alright?"  

"I’m good, me," Nick says. "And you? I’m still working on where I know you from. I tried to IMDB you only I don’t know your last name. Just typing "Harry" didn't get me too far." 

"I told you, I’m not an actor," Harry laughs, subtly checking to see if Ben’s paying any attention to them. He’s still chatting. 

"Ahh, but if you were an actor, you’d be really good at lying, wouldn’t you," Nick says, shaking his fork at him. "I don’t trust you for a second." 

"I’m just a friend of Ben’s," Harry says, perfectly innocently. 

"Well, Ben’s a very lucky man, then," Nick murmurs back, giving him a smile that makes Harry feel warm from top to toe, and then turning around when someone calls his name and ducks over the back of his chair to give him a kiss on his cheek. 

"Flackie!" Nick says, muffled, and she pulls back, grinning. Harry’s eyes widen as he recognizes her. Caroline Flack, off Xtra Factor. Harry’s always had a bit of a thing for her, always imagined himself doing interviews post-performance with her laughing at him from across the sofa. 

"Who’s your friend, Grim?" she says in her raspy voice, squeezing Nick’s shoulder. 

"Ahh, Caroline, this is Harry-" 

"Styles," Harry supplies. "Harry Styles." 

"Nice to meet you, Harry Styles." 

"Harry is Ben’s latest boytoy- I’m sorry, his _friend_ , excuse me,” Nick says, laughing wickedly, and Harry punches him in the thigh and shakes Caroline’s soft warm hand. 

"Pay no mind to Nick, he thinks he’s funny," she says, and then she lowers her voice, whispering conspiratorially. "Honestly, the early mornings have taken their toll-"

"Shut up, you horrid woman," Nick says, and she lets out a squeaky laugh and hugs him again. 

"I love seeing you at these things," she says into his ear, Harry watching and trying not to stare at her chest. "Honestly, why aren’t you at my table?" 

"I’m sure Becks is asking himself the same question," Nick says very seriously, and then laughs when Caroline giggles. "Go have fun. Olly Murs looks _very_  keen to talk to you.” 

"Oh, Olls," she sighs, letting go of Nick. "Find me later, babe, I’ll buy you a drink." 

"Absolutely," Nick promises. He turns back to the table, eyes it, and then murmurs to Harry, "Ugh, look, all they’ve put out is wine. I bloody hate wine." 

"Me too!" Harry says, too loud, and then giggles when Nick looks around with comically-wide eyes to see if anyone heard. 

"Harry, the person sitting two seats down from me runs the vineyard that made this wine," Nick says, with a stern shake of his head. "Frankly, it’s rude of you to-" 

"Oh shut up," Harry says, punching him again, and Nick catches him by the wrist. 

"No punches, popstar!" 

"I’m not a popstar," Harry says, not moving his hand out of Nick’s grip, and Nick’s fingers trace over the vein in Harry’s wrist for a split second before he lets go. 

"Yes, yes, you’re just Ben’s friend, I know," Nick says, coughing and reaching for his glass of ice water. Harry puts his hand back in his lap, chagrined. "You’ve got a popstar look about you, though. All shiny-eyed and hopeful."

Harry takes a sip of his own water. 

"I used to be in a band," he admits - something that even Ben doesn’t know - and Nick snaps his fingers. 

"A-ha. I knew it. What were you called?" 

"It wasn’t - I mean, like. We weren’t famous or anything. Barely ever got gigs in London. We broke up ages ago." 

"Still waiting to hear what you were ca-lled," Nick says, sing-song. 

"Uhh. White Eskimo," Harry says, grudgingly. 

Nick snorts. “That is - very sixth-form.” 

"Shut up." 

"So what’d you do? Drummer, guitarist - whatever the other things are-"

"I was the singer," Harry says, and goes red, completely involuntarily. 

"You’re blushing," Nick observes, not unkindly. 

"I am not." 

"Singer, eh? Don’t know why I even asked. You’ve got that frontman look all over you. Too pretty to be hidden behind a clunky old drumset." 

"Stop calling me pretty, you’ll give me a complex," Harry says, fumbling for his water again. He feels prickly all over, like people are watching him act stupid, even though no one’s paying attention. 

Nick just smiles at him. “Sorry, love. Call 'em like I see 'em.” 

He sits back in his chair, sighing. “Honestly, they should put a bottle of vodka in the middle of the table, make this interesting. Wine’s so snoozy, it just makes me want to go to bed, you know? Oh- cheers, love!” 

A waitress leans over them to set a platter in the middle of the table and Nick looks at her beseechingly and says, “Is there any way in the world I could order a vodka tonic from you? Pretty please?”

She doesn’t even look at him. “You can go up to the bar,” she says flatly, and then turns away, and Nick sticks his tongue out and sits up in his chair, peering at the platter. Harry does the same. It’s covered in crushed ice, with weird grey shells dotted on it, filled with something cloudy and jelly-looking. 

"Ooh, lovely," Nick says happily. "Oysters." 

"Harry?" Harry hears from his left, and he turns around, feeling all shaky like he’s just come up from underwater. Nick’s attention is like that, all-encompassing. Ben’s holding out the wine bottle, smiling at him. "Fancy a glass?" 

"Um, sure," Harry says, his instinct to say yes to Ben all muddled with the way he knows Nick is probably watching. "Thanks." 

"Of course, sweetheart." Ben pours him some wine. "Having fun?" 

"Yeah," Harry says, smiling at him. "It’s lovely."

"Don’t believe a word Nick says about me, he’s an awful liar," Ben says with a wink. 

Harry just smiles wider, feeling forced in a way he never usually does with Ben, and then turns back to Nick. He takes a sip of wine as a reflex, struggles not to make a face, and Nick laughs at him gently. 

"You and your wine, Harry Styles." 

"It’s alcohol and it’s free," Harry says tartly back, and realizes too late it sounds both desperate and cheap. He winces.

Nick just laughs delightedly, though. “Cheers to that!” 

"Should we pass these around?" a woman to Nick’s right says, gesturing at the plate in the center of the table, held up on a silver stand like pizza at the old-fashioned pizzeria Harry used to go to back home.

"Betcha we could all reach 'em, don’t you think?" Nick says back, stretching his arm out. "Or do I just have terrible table manners and freakishly long arms? Here, I’ll pass them." 

He sets an oyster on Harry’s plate with a little clink, says, “You fancy cocktail sauce? Lemon wedge?” 

"Umm," Harry says in a panic. The thing’s dripping water and looks very slimy. "No, thank you." 

"Alright." Nick sets an oyster on his own plate before passing it to his right, dolloping a healthy spoonful of red sauce on top of it. Harry watches him, and then looks away quick when Nick notices him watching. He picks up his fork and stabs at the soft thing in the middle of the shell. 

It won’t - stay - on his _bloody fork_. It keeps slipping off, landing with a little splash, some weird stringy bits connecting it to the shell. Harry can feel his face starting to heat with frustration. He doesn’t look up, until a hand reaches over from his right, gives his thigh a gentle squeeze. 

He looks up, sees Nick looking at him knowingly, and he watches as Nick takes his little fork, jostles it at one end of the oyster, and then lifts the whole shell to his mouth, tipping it and sucking the contents into his mouth. 

He swallows, then nods at Harry, looks away to pour himself some more water. Harry chews his bottom lip, and follows Nick’s lead. 

The oyster slips down his throat, slimy and salty and cold, like a mouthful of seawater, and Harry chokes with surprise, starts coughing frantically. Eurgh, that’s awful. That’s not food. That’s worse than swallowing jizz. 

He fumbles for his water, takes a deep gulp, coughs a few more times as Nick watches him, amusement etched in the lines around his eyes.

"Alright there, love?"

Harry nods, face still red, takes another sip of water.

"Normally I’m really good at just swallowing," he says breathlessly, slapping his chest with his hand, and Nick collapses into laughter. 

"No, I- that’s not what I meant!" Harry protests. "I meant like pills and stuff-" 

Nick’s wheezing into his water glass, face going red, and even Ben looks over to see what they’re on about. 

"Alright?" he mouths to Harry, and Harry nods, tries to look composed and sane. 

Ben smiles absently and turns away. 

Harry lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, grabs his wine to wash the taste out of his mouth. That’s how bad it was, that he’d rather drink wine than taste it. 

"Not a fan?" Nick says lightly, cheeks still flushed from laughter, and Harry looks at him suspiciously, not sure if Nick’s taking the piss. 

"Maybe it'll grow on me," he says, trying to be diplomatic, and Nick snorts a laugh, puts his empty shell back onto the platter, does the same with Harry’s. 

"Fair enough. Shit, I’d like a proper drink. Fancy a trip to the bar?" 

Harry really shouldn’t. They’re starting to come around with salads, and Ben might want to show him off soon, introduce him around. 

But _god_ , Harry does want a drink. 

"Yeah," he says. 

"Ask Ben first, don’t want him thinking I’m whisking you away," Nick says, pulling his phone out of his pocket for a quick peek. 

Harry drains his wine to fortify himself, slips his palm onto Ben’s thigh. Ben barely turns his head. 

"Mind if I go get a drink with Nick?" Harry murmurs into his ear, and Ben nods absentmindedly, patting his hand a few times. 

"Yeah, of course," he says, and then - "So as for a production schedule, I was thinking early 2015 to start shooting and then we could-" 

Harry stands up, setting the napkin down to the left of his plate, and follows Nick to the bar. 

Nick knows bloody _everyone_. He’s shaking hands and kissing cheeks left and right and it takes a good five minutes before they’re bellying up to the bar, Nick looking over at him. 

"So," he says. "Harry Styles. Where’re you from?" 

"Holmes Chapel," Harry says, putting a few peanuts into his mouth from the bowl on the bar. Nick does the same. 

"Ahh, I knew you were Northern," Nick says, licking his fingers. "I’m from Oldham, myself. How’re you enjoying London, then?" 

What a question. Harry eats another peanut. 

"It’s, uh. It’s big," he says. 

Nick huffs a laugh, signals for the bartender. “That is - factually accurate.” 

"I mean- it’s just. It feels big. But - but I like it. Didn’t like it at first, but, you know. I like it." 

_At first_ is code for standing on a street corner for four months, selling his arse and eating ramen in the shitty flat he shared with some psycho he met on Craigslist. But Nick doesn’t need to know that bit. 

"The best part of London," Nick says, confidentially. "Is that if you meet the right people, it’ll feel small." 

"Guess I just haven’t met the right people yet," Harry says, and it feels like flirting. He can’t help it. It’s so easy to flirt with Nick. 

"Well, the night is young," Nick says, grinning at him, and then to the bartender - "Two vodka tonics, please?" 

"Oh, you don’t have to-" Harry starts, and Nick waves him off, throwing a tenner onto the bar. 

"Oh don’t, don’t. I want to. So how long have you lived in London?" 

By the end of Harry’s second vodka tonic, he’s feeling decidedly looser and happier, and Nick looks quite the same. They’re both still upright and generally coherent, so Harry’s not too worried. 

They wander back to the table just in time for the main course, which consists of some kind of almond-crusted whitefish and a minuscule amount of green beans. Harry’s drunk and still starving by the time they take the plates away, and he raids the bread basket with Nick, both of them slathering multiple pieces with butter and finishing the wine bottle. Harry gets into a brief but intense conversation with a man on Nick’s other side about a Banksy documentary he watched while stoned with Zayn. Nick offers unhelpful commentary with his mouth full. 

After dinner, they bring out coffee in tiny individual French presses, but Harry doesn’t want any. He’s feeling a bit belligerent, a bit ignored - Ben’s back still to him - and what he wants to do is keep drinking. 

"You want to go back to the bar?" he murmurs to Nick, as Nick nibbles at the little buttery vanilla biscuit on the side of his coffee saucer. 

"Yes," Nick says without hesitation, and it makes Harry laugh as he scrapes his chair back. 

\---

"You know what we should do?" Harry says when they’re at the bar, leaning their hips against it and facing each other. He runs a hand through his hair. "We should take a shot." 

"A shot!" Nick says, breaking into laughter like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard in his life. "A shot! I haven’t taken a shot since - well, last Friday, actually, but only because it was my mate’s birthday and she’s well sloppy. And if you’re at Funky Buddha you have to take shots, right? It’s practically a law. I couldn't refuse." 

"Never been there, so," Harry says, a bit jealously. He goes to the most beautiful places, but sometimes he just wants to get trashed with a load of people his age - or closer to his age than his clients are. Zayn hates clubs and prefers smoking to drinking. Harry misses _dancing_ , a little bit. He barely ever has club nights here. He used to go with his mates in Holmes Chapel, jump around in some sticky-floored place that played hip-hop and served bright blue drinks in tall glasses that got you _wasted_. 

"Oh my god, Harry, that’s an outrage," Nick says, offended. "I mean, it’s like the sloppiest posh place in town.  There are bloody _theme nights_ , and the DJ plays, like, all requests. Full of poshies who want to feel all laddy and trashy for a night.  _Hilarious_  on a Friday night.” 

Harry shrugs, and Nick pats his hand where it’s resting on the bartop. “You know what, love, we’ll do shots. Just for you. You poor Funky Buddha-less child.” 

Harry grins like a kid, all teeth, and Nick calls the bartender over. 

They do two rounds, blissfully unaware of whatever else is happening in the room - though Harry keeps mumbling something mush-mouthed about how he’s not supposed to get too drunk, and every few seconds Nick whines pitifully about how early he’s got work the next day. 

"Another!" Harry says, too loud, and Nick shushes him, giggling, asks sensibly for two glasses of water instead. 

They drink in silence, Harry bopping his head to the elevator-quality music provided by the four-piece string quartet in the corner which is inexplicably playing an old Madonna cover. 

"Is this…" Nick says, realizing the same thing, and Harry says, "Yeah." 

“ _Strong_ choice,” Nick laughs, and they both sing the chorus as it comes in. Nick’s voice is terrible, creaky and flat. 

"Hey," Nick says, after a minute, and Harry looks up from his water glass, still humming the last bar of the song. "Hey, you’re really good." 

Harry’s really pissed. “Wha?” he says. 

"Singing. You." Nick is also apparently quite pissed. "You’re good." 

Normally Harry would brush it off, because singing isn’t - it isn’t part of him anymore. That part left when his band broke up and Matty moved back home and Harry tried open mics until they asked him to stop showing up.

But tonight, he’s drunk, and he feels good, so he just smiles at Nick. 

"Thanks," he says, and Nick grins back at him, until the smile slides off Harry’s face and he’s just  _staring_. Nick has such a nice mouth, and warm eyes, and he’s - he’s just- 

Shit. Harry swallows hard.

"D’you, uh, do you want to go to the toilet?" he says, a hot little current of excitement stirring in his belly, and Nick looks wide-eyed and dazed when he nods. 

Harry sneaks a look back at Ben as they duck out. He’s still deep in conversation. 

The men’s has someone coming out of it as they pass, but the single-use handicapped toilet is empty, and Harry ducks inside, lets Nick follow him, shuts and locks the door behind them. 

"I’m sort of drunk," Harry says first thing, swaying on his feet, fingers itching to grab at Nick’s shirt. 

"Me too," Nick says. "Is this okay?" 

"Yeah," Harry breathes. "Yeah, yeah, it’s okay-" and he’s pulling Nick towards him, kissing his mouth. Nick moans right away, like he’d been waiting for it, and his hands slide down to Harry’s waist. His tongue is hot in Harry’s mouth and his hands are gripping him tight and Harry hasn’t felt this good, this turned-on, in bloody _months_. 

He feels the cold of the door up against his back, his head knocking back against the wood, and he lets out a long, loud groan when Nick ducks his head and mouths all the way down Harry’s neck, licking and sucking. 

"No- no marks," he manages to choke out, eyes fluttering shut, back arching as each touch of Nick’s lips makes his body twitch. 

Nick grunts against his neck, lifts his head and they’re kissing again, sweet and deep. Harry could do this for years. He could do this forever. Nick feels so good, and Harry’s skin is hot and sensitive, and it feels fantastically dirty when he thinks about where they are, pressed up against a door in a posh bathroom in a posh hotel. 

And then Nick’s reaching down between them and undoing Harry’s jeans with one hand, and- 

"Jesus," Nick says, hot against Harry’s mouth, when he’s touching Harry’s bare skin. "That how Ben likes you? No pants?" 

It is, actually, it’s what Ben asks for, but Harry doesn’t say that. 

"Like how it feels," he says instead, baring his neck, shuddering when Nick takes the invitation to kiss it. "I- I like it." 

"Mm, me too," Nick breathes, and he licks his palm and starts to jerk Harry off. 

This isn’t how it usually goes. Not that Ben doesn’t get him off, not that Harry doesn’t have clients who love to suck and jerk his cock, but - he never really goes first, he never just _sits there_. Even if they ask him to get himself off, they want to watch, and they want it to be about them. 

This doesn’t feel like that. 

He makes a feeble attempt to reach for the fly of Nick’s trousers, but Nick huffs in annoyance and pins Harry’s hand to the wall with his free hand. When he does that - makes Harry stay still - everything comes together dizzily in Harry’s head, and he thrusts up into Nick’s touch, grunts, loses himself for a little bit. Nick’s hand is hot and solid and sure on his dick, his mouth gasping hot against Harry’s ear. It feels so good all Harry can do is whimper and bang his head back against the door until the pain mixes with pleasure. When he comes, it’s with a groan that feels obscenely loud, his hips jerking as he spurts hot into Nick’s hand. 

He comes down shaking, full-on shaking, his arms clutching around Nick’s neck and Nick kissing him very slowly, gently sucking at his tongue as Harry’s mouth falls lazily open. 

"Here," Nick says, mouth against Harry’s cheek. "Let me wash my hands before I accidentally get this on your shirt." 

He pulls away, sticks his hand under the sink, and Harry leans back, eyelids heavy and skin buzzing gloriously, feeling very pleased with himself. 

And then Nick’s back, and his hands are damp when they grope up under Harry’s shirt, and Harry kisses him, happily. 

"Christ, you’re - fucking fit," Nick breathes out into the kiss, and Harry bites his bottom lip, drags his teeth down Nick’s neck and sucks a lovebite into the skin. 

Nick looks like he wants to be offended, but seeing as he’s practically riding Harry’s thigh and his eyes are glazed with lust, Harry really doesn’t think he has grounds to complain. 

"What do you want?" Harry asks, lifting his head from Nick’s neck and licking his lips. "Hand?" 

"What- whatever," Nick stammers. 

"Or my mouth," Harry whispers into Nick’s ear, making it slow and coy. 

"Fuck," Nick whispers back, voice trembling. "Christ, Harry, please." 

Harry gives him a soft kiss on the lips, then flips them around until Nick’s against the wall, slides down to his knees. He’s tempted to make it into a performance - undoing zippers with his teeth, sucking him like porn, sloppy and over the top - but then Nick’s hand tangles in his hair, and Harry suddenly just feels _urgent_. 

His mouth is watering, genuinely watering, not the way he says it is when he’s sending dirty messages to Ben and Ben sends a photo of his cock taken under his desk at work. 

This all feels so real, it’s doing Harry’s fucking head in. 

He unzips Nick’s trousers, pulls them down around his knees along with his black briefs, and Nick strokes his head, gently. 

"That’s lovely," he breathes, hissing in a breath when Harry licks at the slit of his cock, precome bitter under his tongue. Nick’s been hard for a while, and he smells and tastes incredible, the plump head of his dick flexing, dripping in Harry’s mouth. 

Harry works him over with his mouth and his hand, shivering down his spine whenever Nick pulls a handful of his hair, thighs trembling beneath him. By the time Nick’s finished - he comes quietly, with a shuddery sigh - Harry’s hard again, and embarrassed about it. His cock is throbbing against the fly of his jeans, desperate for more attention, and Nick keeps stroking, scritching his scalp. 

He slips a hand into his jeans, undoes the zip, and Nick says unsteadily, “Are you-“ 

Harry puts his face into Nick’s thigh, slides his hand down his dick. It hurts to try and get off again so soon, his skin feeling terribly sensitive, but it feels so good all the same. 

"None of that," Nick says, hushed. "Get up here." 

He drags Harry to his feet, gets his hand around Harry’s flushed cock again, starts to jerk him off. Harry leans against his shoulder, and is faintly surprised when Nick tips his face up, starts to snog him again. Ben doesn’t like to taste himself - doesn’t like to kiss that much at all, actually, and sometimes Harry doesn’t _want_ to get up to brush his teeth after he gives head-

The thoughts slip out of his brain when Nick’s other hand wriggles between Harry’s legs, cupping the heavy weight of his balls and then - further back. Harry groans, twitching, spreading his thighs as wide as he can. God, why didn’t they fuck? They should have fucked, Harry has a condom. He lets his mouth go slack against Nick’s. 

"That good?" Nick mumbles, knuckling against his perineum.

Harry just buries a moan in Nick’s jaw, thrusts up into his hand. 

Faster, faster than he would’ve thought possible for a second round, he’s coming in Nick’s hand, making high shaky sounds until Nick shushes him, kisses him. 

Harry slumps against the door, his knees wobbly, and watches Nick wash his hands for the second time. 

Nick turns to him, shaking water off his hands, and Harry’s expecting it to be strange, uncomfortable, but Nick just laughs. 

"Your turnaround time is amazing," he says, voice hoarse and still a little slurred. "You’re not like, seventeen, are you?" 

"Twenty, actually, but thanks," Harry says, his tongue feeling thick and strange in his mouth. He can’t stop running over it in his head - Nick jerked him off, Nick kissed him, Nick’s dick was in his mouth. It feels like a movie reel he’ll want to watch for a long while. 

"Twenty?" Nick says, wincing. "God, you’re an infant." 

"Why, how old are you?" 

"Ugh. Don’t want to say." 

"Just tell me," Harry says, catching one of Nick’s hands, pulling him towards him. It feels easy and simple to do that, and Nick settles up against him with a hand on Harry’s neck like he’s been doing it forever. 

"I can’t," Nick whispers. "It’s embarrassing." 

Harry pouts, an expression which he knows is particularly affecting after he’s just gotten off, when his mouth is fuller than usual and his eyes are shiny. “C’mon.” 

"Fine, ugh." Nick rolls his eyes. "I’m thirty. Just turned! Literally weeks ago. But. Yeah. I know, I’m decrepit." 

"Thirty?" Harry asks, thoughtfully. "I kinda thought you were-" 

"If you say older, Harry Styles, I swear to god I won’t be held responsible for my actions," Nick says, and Harry laughs, and then stops laughing when Nick pulls him into a gentle kiss. It feels just as good and satisfying as it did before they both got off, which isn’t always the case with the people Harry shags. 

Nick’s softly stroking his palm through Harry’s hair when someone pounds on the door and they both jerk away, nearly colliding foreheads. 

"Shit," Nick says, running a hand through his quiff. "We - fuck. We should get back. What time is it?" 

\---

They wind their way back to the table, Harry still unsteady on his feet and feeling entirely shagged-out, Nick exchanging murmurs of goodbye with nearly everyone they pass by. 

Harry slides back into his seat, taking a gulp of now-lukewarm water. Ben turns to him, slips a hand onto his thigh under the table, giving him an easy smile. 

"There you are, darling." 

"Sorry," Harry says, feeling Nick behind him, seeing him out of the corner of his eye, hyperaware of his scent, his presence. Harry should feel guilty, but instead he feels _good_. Naughty, or something. This razor’s edge of risk that makes his stomach quivery. “I was at the bar.” 

"I can see that," Ben laughs, reaching out to thumb at Harry’s mouth, and Harry freezes in fear for a moment before Ben continues. 

"You’re pissed. You didn’t tell any embarrassing stories to anyone who looked important, did you, sweetheart?" 

"No one important," Harry says wildly, as Ben cups his jaw in one hand. "Just Nick."

"Not important at all, then," Ben says with a grin, and Harry hears an offended _ey!_ from behind him. He ignores it. 

"I’m actually - I’m actually feeling a bit sick," he says, wiping at his forehead. It is believably sweaty, even though he doesn’t feel sick, he feels satisfied. "Think I might’ve had a bit too much to drink." 

Ben’s forehead furrows. “Oh, Harry.“ 

"I know, I know," Harry says, waving him off. "I’m fine, honestly. Just a bit, you know. Just need to go to bed." 

"Let me call the car, sweetheart." 

Harry grabs for his water glass, as Ben pulls out his phone. 

From his right he hears a cough, and then feels a hand against his leg, big and familiar. Nick. Harry puts a hand over the hand, feels it slip out from under his, and something crumples beneath Harry’s palm like paper. 

He yanks it out, reads it under his hand as Ben says into the phone, “Hello? Wes? Yes, it’s Ben Winston, we’ll need to be picked up now-“ 

_02033568489 Nick x_

Harry stares at it for a minute, and then shoves it discreetly into his pocket, looks up. 

Nick’s gone. Harry looks around, dumbly, and sees him twenty or so yards away, chatting with some woman in a furry long jacket. Before he turns to the door, he looks back, and Harry catches eyes with him. It feels palpable, sends a jolt through his weary body. 

Nick’s mouth splits in a grin, and Harry can’t drag his gaze away until Ben touches his arm. 

"Wes’ll be outside in a minute," he says. "Would you like to go home instead of mine?" 

"Yes, please," Harry says, watching Nick turn around. "I’m -  I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so pissed." 

Ben chuckles, presses a kiss to his temple. “It’s alright. At least you didn’t sick up on anyone. You didn’t, did you?” 

Harry huffs a laugh, shakes his head, lets Ben help him up out of his seat and into the car out front. 

Ben drops him off first. He strokes Harry’s thigh the whole way home, even feels at his dick a few times to see if Harry’s interested, which Harry is not, at all. He’s got the vague sense he should at least pretend, but he’s exhausted. 

"I’ll see you this weekend, how bout," Ben says, as he opens the car door for Harry. "Take care of yourself." 

"Thanks," Harry mumbles, barely mustering up the energy to kiss Ben good night. 

"Go to bed." Ben rubs his thumb over Harry’s cheek, and then gets back into the car, and Harry watches it drive away, swaying back and forth a bit in the lamplight. 

Fumbles for the piece of paper in his pocket, clenches it tight in one fist, grins fiercely, secretly to himself.

What a fucking night. 

\---

He meets Zayn for brunch the next day. He’s in a bit of a weird headspace all morning - he wakes up early despite his fierce hangover, has two cups of tea and curls up in his armchair with a book and his phone tucked inside, doing a bit more scrolling through Instagram than actual reading. He posts a photo of his book and his steaming cup of tea, sticks a filter on it, captions it _lazy morning_ , adds three book emojis and a teacup emoji and a green heart.  

Then he makes himself a third cup of tea.

He spends a bit too much time looking at Nick’s name where he’s put the number into his contact list and contemplating texting him. That’d be mad, though. In the end he manages to resist, and clatters down the steps of his flat when Zayn honks the horn, waving giddily and trying to shake off the odd feeling that’s still following him around. 

"Zayn?" he says at Pain et Chocolat, pushing his sunglasses up onto his head. He’s due in for a haircut next week, Simon’s orders, which is too bad because he sort of fancies his longer hair. He put it in a ponytail the other day. It was cool. "Can I ask you something?" 

Zayn licks marmalade off his pinky finger. He looks up, peering at Harry through his Ray Bans. “Yeah, babes?” 

Harry looks down, swallows hard. He likes Zayn and Zayn likes him, but that doesn’t mean Zayn is going to approve of what he’s done.

Zayn doesn’t love people the same way Harry does, but he loves Harry, and that’s enough. Hopefully. 

"You ever, um," he says. "Have you ever had feelings for - for someone you’ve shagged?" 

Zayn’s eyebrows go up. “Shagged, meaning, worked for?” 

"I - sort of," Harry says hesitantly. 

"Harry…" 

"Not really, though!" Harry cuts in. "He wasn’t - it wasn’t. He wasn’t paying. I just - met him. While I was on the job." 

Zayn stares at him coolly, sunglasses still on, and takes a sip of coffee. 

"When’d this happen?" he says. "Last night? Tell me you didn’t actually shag him." 

Harry feels his cheeks go hot. 

"He - we. We just. Hooked up a bit." 

“ _Christ_ , Harry,” Zayn says, taking off his sunglasses. His mouth’s set in a tight line. “Tell me what happened.” 

Harry looks down at his eggs, pushes a chunk of melon around with his fork. 

"I was out with Ben," he says. "This, um. Some dinner party before a premiere he’s got this weekend. And - and I met this bloke. Well, I knew him, sort of. He, uh. It’s. I guess he’s a bit famous. He’s on radio." 

Zayn looks doubtful, but he keeps his mouth shut, so Harry keeps going. 

"I dunno, so - so we met, and we talked. And had a few drinks-" 

"You were with Ben," Zayn says, slowly. 

"I mean, yeah, but - but Ben was chatting and I - I met Nick at the bar, and we took shots, and, like - he makes me laugh, Zayn. He made me laugh." 

Zayn arches an eyebrow. “That’s not all he did, or you wouldn’t be telling me.” 

Harry tries to scrub the flush off his cheeks with his hand. 

"We sort of got off in the toilet," he says, not making eye contact. "And he sort of gave me his phone number-" 

“ _Harry_ -“ 

"It wasn’t a big deal!" 

Zayn presses at his temples with one hand, irritatedly. “Did Ben find out?” 

"No, no," Harry says quickly. "He barely even noticed I was gone." 

"Who is this bloke? He a mate of Ben’s? He’ll tell Ben you gave it away for free, and then there’s a client gone-" 

"He won’t tell Ben. He’s - I can trust him." 

Zayn looks so sad for a second. 

"You’re still such a kid," he says quietly. "Christ, Harry. You know how lucky you are to work for Ben?" 

Harry looks away guiltily. Zayn says he doesn’t care that Ben stopped asking for him, says it’s fine, and Ben’s a valuable client for Harry to have, but that doesn’t keep Harry from feeling like an arsehole.

"He’s a nice bloke and he doesn’t make you do things you don’t want to do," Zayn says, firmly, leaning forward. "He doesn’t make it hurt or share you around. That’s not something you want to lose, Harry-" 

"I _know_ -“ 

"So what the hell are you doing getting off with other guys while you’re with him?" Zayn says, sharply. "Don’t be fucking stupid." 

The words hurt, unexpectedly, and Harry has to draw in a shaky breath to try and stave off the prickly tears he can feel rushing to his eyes. 

He looks down at his plate, coughs. Forks a piece of cantaloupe into his mouth and then lets it sit there, his throat too tight to swallow. 

"Harry," Zayn says, a bit gentler. 

"I get it," Harry says, muffled, and forces himself to swallow. He looks up, eyes dry. Sniffs in hard. "I know." 

"You - you, uh, think you fancy him?" Zayn says, cringing. Harry almost laughs, only because it’s funny to watch Zayn trying to talk like a normal mate would. 

"No," Harry lies, putting another piece of fruit in his mouth. "No. I was just drunk." 

Zayn looks slightly mollified. 

"Be careful with that," he says. "Didn’t I say don’t get pissed on the job?" 

"Yeah, you did," Harry says, flatly. He takes a gulp of his tea. "And I fucked up." 

Zayn bites his bottom lip, searches Harry’s face, and then looks down. 

"It’s alright," he says, pushing his fork through a mound of roasted potatoes. "It happens." 

"Not to you, of course," Harry says, trying to keep the heavy sarcasm out of his voice. It fails, mostly. 

Zayn huffs a laugh, still looking down. “That what you think?” 

"You’re perfect, and I’m a slag who can’t keep his legs closed," Harry says, making it sound like a joke. He fails again. 

Zayn looks up at him, his eyes going wide. “That’s not what I bloody think.” 

Harry just gulps his tea, his throat tightening again like he’s going to cry. He hates having a fight, always immediately regrets saying something right after it’s come out of his mouth. 

"I’ve felt stuff, for - for a- for clients," Zayn says, haltingly. "Would be hard not to, at first, wouldn’t it. With them buying you shit, taking you places. Saying you’re pretty and smart and talented-" 

His voice shakes a bit on the last word, and he gulps at his orange juice. 

"Never ends well," he says. "Nothing good ever comes of it." 

"You don’t know everything," Harry bites out, and flushes a hot red. "And - and Nick wasn’t a client. S’your own problem if you’ve fallen for a client because I haven’t, not ever. Nick’s different." 

The softness on Zayn’s face is gone. 

"All I’m saying is don’t throw everything away for some bloke you’ve known for two minutes," he says, jaw clenching visibly. 

"I haven’t thrown anything away." 

"If Ben finds out about this- or, god, if _Simon_ finds out-“ 

"Are you going to tell him, then?" Harry says, sniffing in hard. "Make sure I learn my lesson?" 

Zayn’s eyes flicker. 

"No," he says after a second. "I’m not going to tell him." 

Harry stares at him. 

"You’re not?" 

"No, I’m not," Zayn says, tightly. "You done? Can we get the check?" 

Harry nods, bites his lip, watches as Zayn pulls out his credit card. 

"I got it," he says to Harry, without looking at him, sliding his sunglasses down over his eyes. 

"Thanks," Harry says quietly. 

\---

In the car on the way home, Harry looks over at Zayn, who’s driving with both hands on the wheel, his back straight. So careful, all the time. 

"Hey," he says, softly. "Zayn. Have you ever been in love?" 

He knows before he says it that Zayn might laugh, or get mad. But it still just feels important. 

"Is this about that Nick bloke?" Zayn says, not looking at him. "Harry, you got off with him in a toilet, it’s not Romeo and bloody Juliet." 

"No, it’s not about that Nick bloke," Harry says, gritting his teeth. "I’m just asking." 

There’s a silence. Harry’s about to give up and turn the radio up - Zayn gets very silent-treatment when he’s annoyed, which drives Harry fucking nuts - but then Zayn coughs, and says- 

"I, uh. Yeah. Maybe." 

"Yeah?" Harry breathes, leaning his head back against the seat. "You have?"

Zayn chews at the side of his mouth the way he does when he’s nervous. 

"What’s it mean, being in love, anyway," he says. "S’bloody pointless most of the time." 

"You’re such a cynic," Harry says, with a huff of a laugh. 

"Yeah, well." Zayn rubs a hand over his jaw - another nervous tic. 

"Who was it?" Harry asks, quietly. "A client?" 

"I don’t want to talk about it," Zayn says, levelly, slowly. 

"It’s okay if it - I mean, I won’t take the piss, I literally imagined being married to Nick for like twenty straight minutes this morning." 

Zayn’s mouth twitches at the corners, and Harry grins at the sight. 

"C’monnn. Tell me." 

He leans his head against the side of the seat, bats his eyelashes at Zayn. “Come on. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” 

"You’d show anyone yours," Zayn mutters, but he’s smiling a little bit now.

"I know, I’m awful," Harry says. "So?" 

Zayn’s mouth flattens again. 

"Fine," he says, haltingly. "A client. Yeah. And it doesn’t matter, you know? I was a kid. I still thought I was different and he was different. It was silly." 

"What, did he leave?" Harry asks, voice hushed. 

"I don’t know what I was thinking," Zayn says, ignoring his question. "It was stupid." 

"Bet it wasn’t stupid," Harry says, trying not to sound sympathetic. Zayn hates sympathy. "If you felt it. I mean. It’s real if you feel it." 

Zayn rolls his eyes, and turns the radio up. 

Harry would push, but he’s tired, and Zayn’s mouth is tight, and maybe it’s alright if they both just exist, for a little while, and don’t question each other. 

He takes out his phone, types a text to Nick. 

_Hungover? this is harry. (styles) .xx_

Nick’s response is instantaneous. _like you wouldn’t believe_

He’s added a couple skull emojis, and Harry lets out a strangled kind of laugh, covers his mouth with one hand to hide his smile from Zayn and types back - _Me too, i just ate a massive brunch though it helped :)x_

"What?" Zayn says, suspiciously, after a minute. 

"Nothing," Harry says, shoving his phone into his pocket as Zayn pulls up in front of his flat. "Thanks for the ride. Thanks for brunch." 

Zayn nods, and lets Harry lean over, kiss his cheek. 

"See you soon?" Harry asks. 

"Yeah." 

"Love you." 

Zayn nods, watching him. 

"Be careful, alright?" he calls, out of the open window, when Harry’s halfway up the steps. 

Harry turns back, says, “I’m fine, I swear, Zaynie. Don’t worry.” 

In his pocket, he feels his phone vibrate, and a flush of pleasure goes through him. 

Zayn stares at him for a moment longer, eyes squinted against the daylight and then nods, slowly, and pulls away. 

Harry looks after him for a moment, chewing his bottom lip, and then his phone buzzes again and he forgets about everything in the world except for that. 

**ZAYN**

Zayn slams the front door of the man’s flat behind him, takes off down the stairs, gasping out audible breaths. He gets into his car, shuts the door and locks it, and then stops. He can’t run out like this, mid-client. He can’t, he’ll get fucking bollocked by Simon, but he can’t just fucking stay and pretend nothing happened.

His hands are shaking, and there’s blood between his fingers, his own blood, and he just wants- 

He remembers this night when he was a kid, twelve or something - a warm night, middle of June. His dad was grilling chicken in the back garden and Zayn was running around in the street with a football and a couple kids from his school, and he tripped over his shoelaces and fell flat on his face. Scraped up his chin and the palms of his hands something awful, and his mum bandaged him up, thumbed the hot shameful tears off his cheeks and let him eat his chicken at the adult table, his face stinging every time he chewed a bite. 

Zayn sees a light go on in the front of the house, and his heart jumps with terror. He hits the accelerator, reverses out of there, and only breathes when he’s on the main road. His heart is pounding. His eye is throbbing deep and painful, and there’s blood on his hand that’s spilled from the cut on his cheek, and he doesn’t know what to do. 

He drives in a daze until he’s somewhere familiar. It’s not til he’s parked and hurrying up the steps that he realizes where he is. 

Ben’s. 

He knocks on the door, crosses an arm over his chest, shivering suddenly. 

It’s a long five minutes and another dozen knocks before the door swings open, and Ben’s face appears, warm, flushed, looking so happy and carefree Zayn wants to touch him, throw himself into Ben’s arms like a child seeking comfort. He clenches his fists so he won’t.

"Zayn?" Ben says, eyebrows rising. "What’re you doing here?" 

His house smells sweet, like something baking, and the light and heat are spilling out. Zayn basks in it. 

"I- I-" he stammers, suddenly not sure how to phrase it. "I just-" 

"Are you here for Harry?" Ben asks, tilting his head in concern. "I asked him to turn his phone off for the night, I didn’t think he’d need it - is it an emergency?" 

Zayn feels slow-tongued, thick. “Harry?” 

"Yeah, are you-" 

"Harry’s here?" 

Ben huffs a laugh. “Yeah, Harry’s here. Is everything alright? Is it-“ 

"Yeah," Zayn says, cutting him off, taking a step back and nearly tripping down the steps. He steadies himself with a hand on the railing. "Yeah, everything’s fine. Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean- to bother you." 

"Zayn, wait," Ben says, when Zayn staggers back down the steps. Fuck, his ribs are really starting to hurt now, from the kick the client laid into them, pointed-toe and painful while Zayn was sprawled out on the kitchen floor. God, he’s been so stupid. "Are you alright?" 

"I’m fine," Zayn calls behind him. "I’m fine, I’m sorry-" 

"Zayn!" 

But Zayn’s around the corner, and back to his car, and when he gets in he sits there for a minute again, blinking. He feels a bit like he’s going to cry, which is stupid. He hasn’t properly cried since he was fourteen and his older sister walked in on him and Alec one afternoon in Zayn’s bedroom. 

Zayn tries his hardest not to think about all that, but it starts to trickle back in, and he starts the car with a terrified sort of hurry, like he’s going to explode, soon, and all he can do to avoid it is drive. 

He goes onto autopilot again as he drives, mind running over the entire evening, until he ends up at Simon’s. He can’t bloody just knock on Simon’s door, that’d be unheard of, so he digs out his phone and calls him. 

"Yes?" Simon says, after two rings. 

"Simon? It’s Zayn. Malik." 

"Yes, I know. What is it?" 

"I, uh," Zayn says, and feels abruptly stupid. He swallows hard, touches the cut on his cheek, but there’s no fresh blood. "I. I’m outside your house, actually." 

Simon hums. “Aren’t you supposed to be with a client tonight?” 

"Yeah, that’s - I. That’s actually what I needed to - it, uh, I left." 

"You left." 

"Yeah, I left, because he - he hit me." Zayn sticks a fingernail into his mouth and gnaws at it. 

"He hit you," Simon says, slowly. 

"Yeah," Zayn mumbles. "It wasn’t - I just got out of there, I had to get out of there." 

"Come inside," Simon says, and then he hangs up. 

Zayn gets out of his car slowly, feeling oddly like he’s gotten in trouble at school, a weight in the bottom of his belly. 

\---

"Show me where," Simon says five minutes later, standing in front of him in his lavish front office. Zayn’s feet are bare, digging into the thick Oriental rug. 

Zayn lifts his hand to his cheek. “Punched me here,” he says. “Uh, guess he was wearing a ring or summat because it’s - it was bleeding.” 

"Yes, I see that," Simon says, touching his fingers to the wound. 

"And, uh, I fell, and he kicked me in the stomach." Zayn lifts his shirt. The skin is red and tender, sure to bruise tomorrow. Simon doesn’t touch him there. 

"And why did he do that?" Simon asks, walking over to the corner of the room and taking a glass down from the shelf. He uncaps a bottle of amber liquid, pours a good amount into it, and hands it to Zayn. 

"Um, I- I spilled his tea," Zayn says, unsteadily, feeling awkward holding the glass. He sniffs it. Scotch. 

"You spilled his tea." 

"He- he asked me to make him tea. Serve him tea. And I- it was hot, the cup- I spilt some on my hand accidentally so I dropped the mug, and he hit me."

He takes a cautious sip of the scotch. It burns in his throat. 

Simon nods, slowly. 

"So you were clumsy," he says, and Zayn looks up at him, surprised.

"I didn’t mean to," he says, voice going small. 

"Course you didn’t," Simon says, face inscrutable. He pats Zayn’s shoulder. "And of course he won’t be able to contract with us again. I just want to make sure you’ve learned how important it is to be careful while you’re working." 

Zayn swallows. 

"Yeah," he says. "I know." 

"I haven’t got a plaster for that cheek, but you should wash it out with soap," Simon says, picking up his own scotch and taking a sip. "And tomorrow I’ll-" 

His phone rings on the table, and he sets his scotch down to answer it. 

"Hello?" 

He listens for a minute. Zayn takes a sip of his scotch, wiping his mouth. It makes his eyes water but it feels good in his chest. 

"Yes - hello, Mr. Winston," Simon says, and Zayn looks up, his eyes widening. 

_Shit_. 

"He did what?" Simon says, eyes fixing on Zayn’s, his face starting to narrow. "Oh, I- I see. Yes. No, I understand. Zayn is fine, I’ve spoken to him. It was a misunderstanding." 

His voice is perfectly polite, but his hand is clenched tight around the phone, and Zayn takes a shaky scared step backwards. Fucking hell, he’s in it now.  

"I’m so sorry about that, Ben, I can’t imagine what he was thinking," Simon says, and then lets out a forced chuckle. "Yes, of course. Well, they are quite close. I know. And of course your payment will be returned." 

Zayn’s pulse picks up another beat at that. He’s so fucked. God, why did Ben call Simon? Why would Ben ever - but then, why would Ben know that this is the worst thing he could’ve possibly done?

"Yes, of course. Thanks so much for your understanding. Alright. Have a good night." 

Simon hangs up, and puts the phone into his pocket. He’s deadly still, except for a muscle working in his jaw. 

"That was Mr. Winston," he says, slowly, not looking at Zayn. "He said you showed up at his home half an hour ago. Uninvited. Unexpected." 

Zayn’s throat feels dry. He puts down his glass before he drops it, fingers trembling. 

"Can you explain to me, Zayn, why you would do that?" 

Simon picks up his scotch, finishes it in one swallow and sets it down again, with a heavy clunk. 

"I- I didn’t- I didn’t know Harry was there," Zayn says, unsteadily. "It was just- it was just-" 

"It was just what?" Simon asks, voice like acid. "It was just _what_ , Zayn, finish your fucking sentences, for god’s sake.” 

"It was just - me being stupid," Zayn finishes lamely. 

How many times,” Simon says, grimacing, loosening his tie, and Zayn takes another step backward. “How many times have I told you that if you tried to see Ben again, there would be consequences?” 

"I know, and I’m sorry," Zayn says quickly. "It was stupid, I shouldn’t have-" 

Simon’s rolling up his sleeves, and then he darts forward quick as a snake, grabs Zayn by the chin, palm against his throat. Zayn chokes, and nearly falls forward against his hand. 

"You told me," Simon grits out, holding him fast by the throat. "That you would never try to speak to him again. You _told me_ \- that it was over, and that you were done being foolish, and I bloody believed you.” 

"It’s over," Zayn chokes out. "I swear-" 

"Do you know what I do, with whores who think they’re in love?" Simon says, very calmly. His fingers feel heavy and hot against Zayn’s jaw, inescapable. "I get them the fuck out of my business, because they only cause trouble." 

Zayn’s eyes are leaking, from reflex, and he’s gasping, these short rough gasps that don’t even sound like him. 

"But I gave you a second chance, because I have a soft spot for you." Simon shifts his hand, twists a little, and Zayn muffles a moan of pain. "Because I know you didn’t have fuck-all to go back to. No fucking _family_ , no friends-“ 

He lets go, finally, and Zayn stumbles back, putting his hand to his throat, gulping in as deep of breaths as he can manage. 

"This is your last warning," Simon says, low and cold. "This is the last time I let you act like a child." 

Zayn nods, over and over. There are spots in his vision, black and dizzying. 

"This is real money we’re dealing with," Simon bites out. "This isn’t some fucking fairytale. Ben does not _love you_. He does not care about you. He paid money to fuck you. That’s all.” 

"I know," Zayn says, voice weak, because he does know, he knows that, he knows that’s what people want. Money and sex. 

"Do you know how easily I could put you back where I found you?" Simon murmurs. 

"Yeah, I know," Zayn mumbles again, not looking at him. His face is burning hot.

"Take away that nice flat, those nice clothes, that car of yours," Simon says, face hard. "Leave you in some bar with everything you own in a bloody backpack giving head for a free dinner. That’s where you _were_ , Zayn, and that’s where you can be again.” 

Zayn nods, thumbing wet off his cheeks. Whispers, “I know.” 

Simon heaves a long sigh. 

"Go home, then," he says. "The money Harry would’ve made tonight will come out of your wages." 

Zayn nods. He expected that. Simon picks up his empty glass and turns around to fill it, and like a shamed puppy, Zayn puts on his shoes and slinks out of the front door. 

He goes home, this time. When he gets there he sees Harry sitting on his doorstep, smoking a fag, back hunched and hair curling around his shadowed face. Of bloody course. A cherry on the top of a truly awful night.

Zayn parks, wipes the last of the tears from his face, tries to feel and look normal. 

Harry stands up when he sees Zayn coming up the walk, dropping his cigarette on the ground and grinding it with the tip of his Chelsea boot. 

"Hey," he says, worriedly. "Are you alright?" 

"I’m fine," Zayn says, flashing him a smile. "You didn’t have to come over here." 

"Ben said you were really- shook up, or summat," Harry says, touching Zayn’s arm. "Didn’t you have that old bloke tonight? The one with the tea and the housecleaning? What happened?" 

"I’m fine," Zayn repeats, carefully taking Harry’s hand off his wrist. "I’m just tired." 

"But Ben said-" 

"Ben doesn’t know what the bloody fuck he’s talking about," Zayn snaps. "Alright?" 

Harry goes quiet and wide-eyed, and Zayn feels a rush of guilt. He steps past Harry to get to the door, and he’s halfway up the stairs when Harry says, low- 

"Is it Ben?" 

"Is what Ben," Zayn says, even though he knows. He’s clutching his door key so tightly in his hand it’s starting to hurt. 

"The client," Harry says softly. "Who you were in love with." 

It feels strange to hear it out loud. 

Zayn forces himself to breathe, slowly. He turns around. 

"I saw you kissing him," Harry continues, voice hushed, telling secrets. "Outside Palazzo, last month. I came out the door and saw you and - and I went back inside and pretended I hadn’t." 

Zayn’s stomach is sinking. 

"I’m sorry," he says, helplessly. 

"You could’ve told me," Harry whispers. "I wouldn’t work for him if you-" 

"No, fuck, please," Zayn says, lifting his head, feeling Simon’s fingers around his throat like a phantom. "You have to. You can’t - we can’t lose him, alright?" 

"Zayn-" 

"We can’t lose him as a client," Zayn says desperately. "You don’t get it, alright, Simon’ll blame me and he’ll - he’ll- just. You have to keep seeing him." 

"Not if I tell Simon it’s _my_ fault,” Harry says, peering at him. “If I just tell him I don’t want Ben as a client anymore-“ 

"Please, Harry." Zayn runs a hand through his hair; it’s shaking. God, he can’t deal with this tonight, on top of everything else. "Please just keep seeing him." 

"I don’t get you," Harry says, stubbornly, his eyebrows furrowing together. "You’re in love with him and you won’t even try?" 

Zayn chokes out a laugh. 

"Try?" he says, voice cracking. " _Try_?” 

"You don’t-" 

"No, shut up, Harry," Zayn says, jaw clenching. "Shut up. You don’t understand. If I ever fucking _try_ , Simon’ll - he’ll put me out on the fucking street and I can’t go back there, okay? I can’t go back there. I can’t.” 

He’s breathing fast. 

"You don’t know what - I can’t fucking go back there, I can’t ever go back there, o-okay?" He knows he’s babbling, repeating himself, but he’s so tired, and his life feels so tired, and he doesn’t know what to do. He wants to go to bed. 

"Okay," Harry says, soothing. "Okay. I’m sorry." 

Zayn turns around without another word, unlocks the door. His hands are wobbly. 

When he opens it, Harry follows him inside like a lost puppy. He always fucking does. Zayn hates it, and yet he can’t bear the thought of being by himself right this second. He knows if he’s alone he’ll fall into a pit of memories, the bad kind, and he- he just doesn’t want. That. 

Harry shuts the door behind them, and says, “What happened tonight? With the client?” 

"It’s nothing." 

"You’re bleeding," Harry says, following him into the kitchen. Zayn grabs a paper towel, wets it under the sink. "Why are you bleeding?" 

"Harry, I swear to fucking God, can you just lay off?"  

Harry takes the towel out of Zayn’s hand, pushes his back gently up against the kitchen counter. 

"Let me," he says, face set and determined, and he tilts Zayn’s jaw up with one hand, carefully dabs at the cut on his cheek. 

Zayn stays very still. His pulse is beating fast in his neck, he can feel it, and Harry’s hand is very tender and cautious against his skin.

"There," Harry murmurs after a second. He moves Zayn’s chin up a bit, into the light, and then his breath catches in his throat. 

"Shit," he says, shakily. "Zayn, your neck." 

Abruptly, Zayn remembers Simon’s fingers digging into his throat, and he pulls away, grabs the towel from Harry and tosses it into the bin. Harry doesn’t need to know about that. Harry’s a good kid, a good worker, he won’t ever need what Simon does to Zayn. 

He thinks of it unwillingly, of Simon grabbing Harry, hurting him, and he has to shake his head hard to clear it. It won’t happen. Harry will be fine.

"You should get some ice on that," Harry says from behind him. 

"It’s fine." 

"It’ll bruise something awful tomorrow." 

"I’m _fine_ ,” Zayn says, and his voice breaks raggedly, and before he can react Harry puts his arms around Zayn’s waist from behind, clings to the back of his neck, puts his cheek to Zayn’s back and lets out a harsh breath that sounds like a sob. 

Shit. 

"Harry," Zayn says, clipped. Harry’s hands are tight against the raw sore part of his ribs, and it bloody hurts. "Get off me." 

"You’re not okay," Harry gulps out, voice all shaky. "You’re not okay. Why aren’t you okay?" 

"Harry, I’m just bloody tired-" 

Harry turns him around by the shoulders, eyes wide. 

"You’re lying to me," he says. "You lied to me about Ben, and you’re lying to me now-" 

"Get the fuck over it," Zayn snaps, tugging Harry’s hands off his shoulders. "I don’t owe you anything. I’ll lie to you if I bloody want to." 

Harry’s mouth opens, and then closes again, and he takes a step back, eyes round.

Zayn rubs at his aching ribs, stops before Harry catches on to what he’s doing. 

"I need to go to bed-" he starts, and Harry cuts him off. 

”- you - I don’t ever lie to you,” he says, haltingly. “We’re not supposed to lie to each other.” 

"Harry-" 

"No!" Harry yells. "You’re the only person I have! Don’t fucking lie to me!" 

Zayn takes a step back, and Harry chokes out a dry sob into his wrist, wipes at his eyes. 

"Fuck," he says to himself, steadying, low. "Fuck." 

"I think you should get out now," Zayn says, feeling a hot rush of regret even as he says it. "Get out of my flat, Harry." 

"I don’t have anyone else," Harry mumbles, voice thick. 

"You don’t have me either," Zayn says cruelly, and it feels like a lie, but it does the trick, because Harry sobs again, into the crook of his elbow, and turns around, grabs his jacket and fucks off out of Zayn’s flat. 

Zayn waits until the door closes and then he walks carefully into the bedroom and kicks off his shoes, sprawls out on his stomach and puts his face into his pillow. His cheek stings when it presses against the cotton, and he knows he should put a plaster on it like Harry said, but he can’t move. 

He fucking hates Harry, and the easy way Harry moves through life, and the way he gets to kiss and fuck Ben and it’s so, so easy for him, so simple. He hates Harry so much, and at the same time he loves him, like a brother, and it hurts. He almost starts to cry because it _hurts_ so bad. What the fuck is that? 

He keeps it in, though, by breathing in and out deeply and digging his fingernails into his palms until pain shoots up his wrists and clears his head.

His phone buzzes next to him and he fumbles for it, his eyes burning. It’s Harry. 

_put ice on your neck or itll bruise_ , the text says. 

Zayn whimpers out a laugh. Good fucking god, Harry’s such a better person than him. 

_i’m sorry_ , he types out slowly, because it feels like the least he can do at this point. As soon as he sends it he wants to take it back. It’s scary to just look down and see his feelings right there, open. Written out. 

_yeah, i know_ , Harry sends back, a minute later, when Zayn’s in the toilet staring at himself in the mirror, patting antibiotic over the cut on his cheek. 

The phone vibrates again. 

_brunch tomorrow?_ Harry’s written. _anywhere you want._

Zayn laughs again, rubs at his leaking eyes, presses down the plaster over his throbbing cheek. 

_Yeah_ , he sends. _Good night_

_love you x_ , Harry sends back, when Zayn’s crawling into bed with phone in hand. 

It’s sad, is what it is - Harry saying he loves him when Zayn’s not capable of doing anything but hurting him. When Zayn kicked him out his flat not an hour earlier. It’s pathetic. Harry’s pathetic, and needy, and it’s sad.

But Harry’s the only person _Zayn_ has, too. He knows that. 

Zayn curls up under his duvet, keeps his phone close. He presses it against his chest in case it buzzes again, and falls asleep just like that, clutching it like a lifeline. 

**HARRY**

Nick’s been in Harry’s flat for about ten minutes and he’s already taken his shoes off, thrown his coat on the floor, rumpled Harry’s sofa, put the kettle on, messed up his cupboards looking for tea, and spilled sugar on the countertop. Harry’s sort of impressed. And fond, that too, the same kind of heart-clenching feeling he’s been getting over the past two weeks as they've texted. They’ve texted  _constantly._ Harry feels like he’s back in sixth-form, except Nick’s thirty years old and instead of finding time to text between classes, Harry finds time between clients. 

"This is posh," Nick says, impressed, picking up a watch Harry’s left on the table. Elise gave it to him last month and Harry keeps taking it off to do the dishes and forgetting to put it back on. "Is this Marc Jacobs?" 

"Ermm, I dunno, it was a gift," Harry says, huffing a laugh as he watches Nick hold the watch up against his wrist, tilting his head to the side to admire it. 

Nick sets it down and wanders back into the kitchen. They haven’t touched other than a perfunctory kiss on the cheek when Harry let him in. Harry would quite like to touch him, but he doesn’t want to, like, pressure him. Maybe Nick only likes to get off in bathrooms in posh hotels. Maybe he doesn’t fancy Harry anymore. Maybe he only liked the thrill of it. 

"Sooo," Nick says, poking his head into Harry’s fridge to look for milk. "I don’t have to worry about Ben Winston coming after me, do I?" 

"No," Harry laughs, handing Nick his mug of tea. 

Nick drips some milk into the mug, takes a sip without stirring it first, raises an eyebrow at Harry over the mug. “Cos I can’t fight for shit. I trip over my own feet about three times a week. I once got a concussion trying to get dressed in the dark. He’d take me _down_. He’s like proper beefy.” 

"You don’t have to worry, idiot," Harry says. "Is that why you’re being so, like, weird? Ben and I are- we’re friends." 

"Friends," Nick says, doubtfully. "Friends who kiss on the mouth. Friends who take each other to extremely posh dinners. Friends who-" 

"Shut up," Harry snorts. "We’re- y’know. Friends. Friend-friends." 

"I feel like my definition of friend and your definition of friend are very different." 

"He’s my friend," Harry says, coyly. "Who occasionally shags me, and occasionally takes me to posh dinners." 

"Ohhh, _that_ kind of friend,” Nick says, laughing a little, taking Harry’s hips in hand and pushing him gently back against the counter. Harry tilts his mouth up hopefully. “You should’ve said.” 

"Shut up," Harry repeats, breathily, and Nick kisses him. 

Five minutes later he has a hand down Harry’s jeans and Harry’s squirming back against the fridge, fucking up into Nick’s grip. Nick loves to jerk him off, apparently. Harry’s not making any complaints. There’s something dirty and oddly comforting about it, like Harry’s back in sixth-form getting off with boys for the first time. 

Of course, sometimes he wants a bit more. 

"Hey," he says, breathless, kissing Nick’s mouth and then his cheek. Nick’s focused on the task at hand, and he mouths back at Harry’s lips absently, twists his hand on the upstroke and makes Harry’s knees buckle. "Hey. Fancy seeing my bedroom?" 

"Fancy seeing my bedroom," Nick laughs into his ear, his hand slowing on Harry’s cock. "What a fucking _line_.” 

"Straight and to the point," Harry says, grinning. "Or, you know. Not straight, as it were." 

"Oh ha ha," Nick says, and then, "Go on then, show me this bedroom of yours." 

He huffs out a put-upon sigh, takes his hand off Harry’s dick, and Harry leads the way. 

\---

Nick gives a sloppy, enthusiastic blowjob, humming around Harry’s dick and looking blissful, which is sort of a nice surprise. Harry can’t keep himself from digging his hands into Nick’s gelled quiff, breathing hard, staring at his hollowed cheeks until his eyes water. It feels fucking incredible. 

He comes down Nick’s throat, and Nick pulls off after he swallows, gasping. Grins up at Harry and then crawls up his body til they’re face to face.

"How’s that then?" he says. His mouth is swollen. He licks his lips.

"Do you always ask that after you blow someone?" Harry says, laughing. "Pure class, aren’t you, Grimshaw." 

"Absolutely," Nick says cheerily. "So how’d I do?"

"A-star, I’d say," Harry says, cracking a lazy grin, and Nick ducks his head in a mock bow. What an idiot. Harry reaches out to bite at Nick’s red mouth, turns them over so Nick’s on his back, gently holds his wrists down while he undoes Nick’s shirt, kisses down his chest. He didn’t get to touch any of Nick’s body last time. Didn’t get to lay him out flat, take his time. Nick has sticky-out ribs and narrow hips and a softness at his middle that Harry takes his time with, kissing and nipping at the flesh until he can feel Nick’s prick twitching in his jeans. 

"Now I want a _full_ assessment, Mr. Grimshaw,” Harry says, low, just before he undoes the zip of Nick’s jeans. 

Nick’s staring down at him, his cheeks flushed, eyes dazed. Harry loves that look. 

"Take notes," Harry murmurs, as he pulls Nick’s briefs down over the hot hard head of his dick. Nick lets out a shocked gulp of a laugh, and Harry sucks him down. 

He pulls out every trick he’s learned from years of sucking cock. Nick goes absolutely silent, taut and shaking, until Harry lets the head of Nick’s dick snug up against the back of his throat, swallows over and over against the weight of it, and then Nick starts to whimper. 

There it is. Harry gasps for air through his nose, eyes teary, trying not to feel so completely smug. It’s hard not to, though, when Nick comes about thirty seconds later, groaning, his hands fisting in the sheets. 

Harry swallows it down, keeping his mouth around Nick until he’s spent. 

"Good- _Christ_ ,” Nick gasps, when Harry licks at him as he goes soft, making Nick’s hips shiver with leftover sensation. “You monster.” 

Harry lifts his head. His lips feel slick and hot and his jaw aches when he smiles. 

"Well?" he says. His voice sounds wrecked.

Nick tips his head back, lets out a weak laugh. “Full fucking marks.” 

\---

"So guess what," Harry says five minutes later, when they’re lying side by side, breathing deep. His stomach’s quivering nervously, cutting through his post-shag haze, but he’s got this feeling that he needs to say it. 

Nick hums, looks over at him. “What?” 

Harry looks him over. 

"Remember when you thought I was an actor?" he says. 

Nick breathes out a laugh. “I’m still not convinced you aren’t. That blowjob was all, like, casting couch. Very impressive.” 

Harry blinks up at the ceiling. Well, that cuts a bit close. 

"In a- not rude way," Nick says, sounding sheepish. "Sorry? Was that rude?" 

"It’s okay," Harry says, chewing his bottom lip. "Actually, a bit spot-on." 

Nick looks at him, curiously. “Hm?” 

"That’s sort of what I do," Harry says. There’s a sinking feeling in his chest. "I sort of, um, have sex. Professionally." 

There’s a long, tight silence. 

"Oh, god," Nick says, faintly. 

He sits up, and Harry sits up too, feeling defensive, wobbly.

"Oh god. I’ve been stupid. I’ve been really stupid, haven’t I-" 

"No, I- not _you_ ,” Harry bursts out, grabbing for Nick’s knee. “Not you. I wasn’t - I. It’s just my job. I’m, um, I’m an escort.  But I wasn’t escorting you. We weren’t escorting together. Escorting? Is that, um, the right word?” 

Nick’s got his hand over his face. 

"Nick," Harry says, desperately. "That all came out wrong. Um. I probably should have told you, you know, not when we had just had sex." 

"What’s this, like, a freebie, and then I sign a contract?" Nick says miserably, rubbing his forehead. "Like when you try out the gym free for a week?" 

"I’m not a gym," Harry says, quietly. 

"God, I’m so stupid. I thought you _liked_ me.” 

"I do like you." Harry’s throat hurts, and not just from the blowjob. "I’m not- I’m not being an escort right now. That’s just, um, that’s just my job. I’m just being me right now-" 

"And the other night, that was, what, a preview?" 

"Nick, you’re not fucking listening to me." 

Nick lets out a strained breath, and Harry grabs his knee, squeezes hard, until Nick drops his hand and frowns at him. 

"I’m not trying to shag you for money," Harry says, sniffing in hard. "I swear." 

Nick blinks at him. 

"Trust me, okay? This- this isn’t about money," Harry says, voice cracking, and then, trying to lighten the mood, "You’re not rich enough anyway." 

"Heyyy," Nick says automatically, the line of his eyebrows loosening up a bit. "I’m insulted. But also relieved?" 

"Just trust me, alright?" Harry says, knuckling his own thigh with his fingers, nervously. "If I was in it for the money, I wouldn’t have gotten off with you while I was out with Ben. I’m not supposed to do that."

"You mean-" Nick starts, and his eyes go wide. "Ben _pays_ for it? Oh, shit.” 

"Nick-" 

"But Ben’s so fit," Nick says, nose wrinkling. "I figured you’d only shag like old wrinkly blokes." 

"Ben likes no commitment, and someone pretty on his arm," Harry says, and then flushes because _that_ sounds bloody conceited, doesn’t it. 

"Ooh, someone _pretty_ , does he, is that s’posed to be you?” Nick says, poking at Harry’s side and making Harry wriggle ticklishly. 

"You can’t- stop it, Nick-” Harry giggles, batting his hands away. “You can’t tell anyone that, alright? About Ben.” 

Nick mimes zipping his lip and tossing away the key. 

"I mean it," Harry says, biting his lip. "It’s really, like. It’s really important." 

"Don’t fret, sweetheart. I’m good at keeping secrets." 

Harry should probably fret, considering Nick’s choice of profession, but for some reason he doesn’t doubt him, not one bit.

"The point is," he says. "It’s what I do, but - it’s not why, it’s not why I did _this_. I just, like. I just really really really really fancy you.” 

His cheeks go red. Nick’s smiling a bit moonily. 

"How many reallys was that, love?" 

"Shut up," Harry mutters, punching his thigh. 

"No _punches_ , we’ve gone over this,” Nick laughs gently, grabbing Harry’s fist. “I’m just- God. It’s just a bit weird. Isn’t it? I’m not just an old fuddy-duddy, it is a bit weird, what you do, right?” 

"It doesn’t have to be weird," Harry says, turning his hand around so he’s palm to palm with Nick. "It’s just, like. My day job." 

"Your day job!" Nick says, huffing out a breath. "S’bit different than a normal day job, Harold." 

"Because your day job is super normal," Harry says dryly. "Mr. Breakfast Show Host." 

"That’s more normal than what you do!" 

"Wait, alright, listen." Harry puts his hands out. "It’s like, if I worked at a restaurant all day, it’s not like I’m going to not eat when I’m not at work. I still need to eat." 

"Well, if you worked at, like, a McDonald’s, you might not eat McDonald’s when you’re off work," Nick argues back. 

"Okay, but sex isn’t McDonald’s." 

"Sex isn’t food either, Harry, that’s the point of a bloody metaphor." 

Harry opens his mouth to argue back even though he’s sort of lost the plot, and cracks up helplessly when he sees Nick’s mouth wobble. Nick breaks about a second later, until they’re both clutching each other in bed, choking out gulps of laughter. 

Nick ends up on his back with Harry slumped on top of him, head to his chest, feeling Nick’s belly wobble as he laughs his strange creaky laugh.

"Frankly-" Nick says breathlessly. "Frankly I resent the implication that sex with me is _anything_ like McDonald’s.” 

"I would never insult McDonald’s like that," Harry says, solemnly, and Nick smacks at his head with one hand. 

"Little shit." 

"I quite like McDonald’s, anyway," Harry says, lifting his head, and Nick sticks out his tongue, and Harry kisses him because he kind of can’t help it when Nick looks at him like that. 

Nick hums in his throat and slides his hand up Harry’s back. 

"So," Harry says, breathing hard, five minutes later when they finally break for air. His lips are tingling, well-kissed. "You’re okay with it?" 

Nick looks up at the ceiling, purses his lips thoughtfully. 

"I suppose I can handle it. It’s not like we’re dating or anything." 

Harry nods, a bit deflated. “That’s true.” 

“ _You’re_ allowed, though?” Nick says, raising an eyebrow. His hand’s stroking slowly through Harry’s hair, and it feels so nice Harry just wants to collapse into his chest and sleep forever. “To, you know, fuck around when you’re not on the clock?” 

Harry scoffs. “Course I’m allowed. It’s not like my dick’s only got a- a limited number of uses. I mean, in a day, obviously, but not in _general_ \- it's like, if I worked at, say, a coffee shop-“ 

Nick laughs, eyes crinkling. He touches Harry’s bottom lip. “Don’t whip out another metaphor, please, I’ll take your word for it.” 

Harry huffs a laugh too and then lays his head down. He stares at the wall as he feels Nick’s heart beat slow under his ear. 

He’s allowed. Isn’t he? It’s not like it matters. 

Simon never needs to know, anyway.  


	2. two

**ZAYN**

"You’re sure you don’t want to come?" Harry says anxiously, wrapping his scarf around his neck and fumbling for his Hermès weekender. "You could still come." 

"Yeah, I’m sure," Zayn says, leaning against Harry’s kitchen counter, smiling flatly. 

"My mum would love you," Harry says. "I swear." 

"Thanks, Haz, but I just- it’s alright. Got some good jobs over Christmas anyway." 

Harry nods, and checks his watch. “If we leave now I should make the train just fine. Don’t forget to take your gingerbread!” 

"I got it right here, Hazza," Zayn says, laughing a little, hoisting up the tin. "Let’s go, babe, no more dawdling." 

"Not dawdling," Harry says, looking around his immaculate kitchen nervously, chewing his fingernail. "Just making sure everything’s sorted. You’ll be alright, won’t you?" 

"I’ll be fine." 

Harry nods, and then throws his arms around Zayn, presses his face into Zayn’s neck. 

"Happy Christmas," he says, muffled into Zayn’s collar. "I mean. Happy winter. Or whatever. Sorry." 

"Happy Christmas, babe," Zayn laughs, breathing in the scent of Harry’s herbal shampoo. "Alright, c’mon, you’ll miss your train." 

At the train station, Zayn pulls up to the curb, watches as Harry looks out the window, tapping his fingers on his thigh, chewing his bottom lip. 

"Harry." 

"Yeah," Harry says, loudly. "I know. Just a minute." 

Zayn turns the car off, stares awkwardly ahead. 

"It always just feels weird to go home," Harry says, voice wobbly. "Like just. Just weird. I dunno." 

"I know, babe." 

"My mum thinks I’m a receptionist," Harry says, and lets out a weak little laugh. "At a fucking insurance company." 

"Better hide the label on that bag, then," Zayn says, lightly, reaching over and squeezing his hand. "It’s alright, Haz, it’s just a week." 

Harry nods, staring out the window, his eyes bright and lips tight above his fluffy plaid scarf. He’s so pretty sometimes, it makes Zayn’s head spin. He can just imagine Harry at home, the baby of the family, well-loved, pampered. Sitting around in his pyjamas with a cat in his lap and a cup of tea, watching Christmas films on telly and drinking hot chocolate.

It’s a homey image, a warm one, and Zayn has to bite his lip hard against the swell of loneliness that rises in his stomach. 

"Go on," he says. "I’ll see you soon." 

"Yeah," Harry breathes, opening the car door and clambering out, pulling out his bag from the backseat. "I’ll text you when I get in on Thursday." 

"Sounds good." 

"Love you," Harry says, peering into the window. His breath is puffing out in white clouds and his cheeks are flushed pink from the cold. 

"You too," Zayn says. "Have a good Christmas." 

Harry nods, and then turns away, hurries toward the door of the train station, long legs and leather boots, his bag bumping against his arse as he walks.

Zayn watches him until the doors close behind him, and then pulls away. 

\---

He gets home at noon with groceries, starts packing a bowl before he even puts them away. He smokes and cleans up and eats, taking hits between chores, until he’s in a daze and he realizes he’s been washing the same plate for five minutes straight. He sets it down with a clatter, painstakingly empties and cleans the bowl and packs himself another, and takes it to the sofa, digging his phone out of his pocket and scrolling idly through his calendar. 

He has a client tomorrow, the 24th. A middle-aged man in Belgravia, who’s apparently going to get into the Christmas spirit by tying Zayn to his bed and fucking his mouth roughly and then his arse. It’ll be a long night, a hard night, but he pays out the arse to treat Zayn like shit, so it’ll be worth it.

On Christmas Day he has a different job, a bloke in his seventies who Zayn’s seen before. He’s kind and quiet and likes Zayn to lie in bed next to him and read out loud. 

One might think Zayn would be looking forward to that client more than the kinky one, but there’s something about the way that man looks at him, the loneliness and exhaustion on his face, that makes Zayn feel - exposed. 

Still, he’s rich, and it’s only three hours. And what else is Zayn going to do? Work makes the time pass. His dad used to say that. He probably didn’t mean it about what Zayn does, but Zayn thinks the principle still applies. 

He takes a long hit on the pipe, but he didn’t start out in the right mindset, and it’s not relaxing him. It’s just ratcheting up his anxiety, making him feel helpless. What if Harry’s train crashes? What if he slips and cracks his head open? What if he - Zayn starts to picture it, unwillingly, Harry with a wet pool of blood around his head and his eyes glazed over, and he has to fumble for the remote and turn the telly on to get something else in his mind. 

It’s all fucking Christmas films. 

Zayn celebrated Christmas as a kid, with his mum’s family, two towns over at his nan’s place. They had a tree and everything. Presents. His Christian cousins taught him carols, and they had snowball fights, and baked pies. Zayn had these red pyjamas with little white reindeer on them, and the toes were all sealed up- a onesie- and they were fleecy and cosy and his mum used to gather him up in her arms and say- 

His eyes are leaking, and he’s really, really fucking high. He doesn’t want to think about his mum, or about Harry. He wants to think about nothing and feel nothing. 

He wipes his eyes, sets the pipe aside, flips the channels until he finds an old footy match. He really doesn’t give a fuck who’s playing, but the hum of the crowd and the steady voice of the commentator make him feel better.

There are times he feels breathless from how much he wants his life to be different. It passes eventually, it always passes, but right now he just can’t stop picturing the red pyjamas and Harry’s red mouth and red blood on the pavement and his eyes are going blurry. 

Weed’s not gonna do it, not tonight, so he staggers up from his sofa and into the kitchen. Harry’s client - the woman with kids who likes to make him drink wine and eat her out - gives Harry a bunch of her pills, and Harry gives some of them to Zayn. 

He sits back down on the sofa, washes a Valium down with a cold mug of tea from that morning, smokes the rest of the bowl, and passes out. 

He wakes up at nine PM, and the sudden darkness outside makes him confused, panicky, until he fumbles for his phone and sees the time. 

The telly’s still on, volume low. Zayn’s head is dizzy and his mouth is bone-dry. 

He gulps a glass of water, standing over the sink, and hears his phone buzz on the coffee table. 

It’s Harry. He’s sent a photo of himself and his sister with their tongues sticking out, eyes happy and drunk. There’s tinsel in his hair, and his sister has her nose pierced, and they look alike. 

Zayn inhales hard.  _HAPPY XMAS FROM THE STYLES_ , Harry’s written, and then,  _next year ure coming to holems chapel. no excuses . xxxxx_

Zayn puts his phone down, and then picks it up again, and types in Ben’s number. 

The text is short.  _You in town?_  

Five seconds after he hits send, he remembers that Ben might not have his number still, and he screws up his face with shame. Shit. Shit. 

But his phone buzzes in his hand, and it’s Ben. 

_Yes I am. And you?_

Zayn bites his lip hard. 

There’s still time for him to not do this. There’s still time for him not to act like a child. 

But Zayn  _wants_  it, really badly. He wants it. 

 _Yes,_ he types, and then, slowly,  _Do you want me to come over?_

It feels so, so stupid. 

Ben doesn’t respond for a little while, and Zayn swipes back over to the photo Harry’s sent, his bright grin. 

 _Happy christmas babe_ , he taps out.  _xxx_

His phone buzzes. 

 _I’d love that_ , Ben’s written.  _Any time. I have wine. x_

Zayn stares at it, and then stands up and goes to get himself ready. 

Twenty minutes later he’s clean-shaven and showered and wearing dark jeans and he puts his jacket on, hands a bit wobbly. He should be good to drive, probably, if he’s careful. 

Ben’s front light is on. Zayn parks in the driveway and stares up at the house. 

If Simon knew, he-

But Simon’s not going to find out, is he. He’s not going to find out. 

Zayn knocks at the front door, Harry’s tin of gingerbread in one hand, a weak offering. It takes a minute, but finally it opens, and - god. 

Ben’s standing there in a white undershirt and his work trousers, unzipped, and Zayn feels a surge of familiar hunger in his belly. 

"Hi," Ben says, smiling crookedly. 

"Brought, uh, gingerbread," Zayn says, tongue-tied. 

"From Harry? He made me some as well." 

Zayn nods, stupidly, and Ben says softly, “Why don’t you put that down?” and when Zayn puts them down Ben gathers him up and kisses him, right there, shutting the door behind Zayn and pushing him up against it. 

Fucking hell. Fucking hell. Zayn goes pliant, opens his legs and his mouth and groans when Ben mouths at his throat, stubble rasping against his skin. This is exactly what he wanted. This is exactly- 

Ben puts his big hand against Zayn’s dick in his jeans, and Zayn thunks his head back against the door, pulls him in and kisses him harder, biting at his mouth, grinding up against Ben’s palm. 

"You’re hard for me," Ben murmurs, sounding pleased, and Zayn doesn’t even recognize the person who says  _fuck me please fuck me_  even though it’s coming out of his mouth. Ben walks him backwards into the living room, snogs Zayn up against the back of the sofa, then flips him around. 

"I’ll fuck you right here," he says against the back of Zayn’s neck, and Zayn nods, frantically. He needs it like an itch under his skin. Pot works up to a point and the pills work up to a point but he knows he needs this to chip away at that emptiness in his stomach. 

"Please, fuck," he gasps out. "Please." 

"Let me get a condom," Ben says against his ear, kissing him roughly, and Zayn nods again, lets his head fall forward when Ben’s footsteps lead away into the other room. He lifts his head after a moment, unzips his jeans and kicks them off, shivers hard. 

"God," Ben groans, when he comes back in, and Zayn sucks in a hard breath when Ben takes his hips in both hands, gropes his arse, yanks his cheeks apart, playing with him. 

"Fucking gorgeous," Ben mutters. "Fucking hell." 

"Do it," Zayn says, choked, not exactly sure what he wants to be saying. Part of him wants to slip into professional mode, beg for it sweetly, and part of him wants to stay absolutely quiet and let it happen.

Ben loosens him with a couple lube-slick fingers, and it feels numb. Fingers always do, for Zayn. For it to penetrate his mind, his stupid slow unwilling mind, he needs all of it, he needs a prick. 

And then Ben slides his hand up Zayn’s spine and pushes slowly into him, and Zayn arches, his mouth falling open, hand flexing against the leather sofa. 

God. That’s it, that’s fucking it. 

Ben growls against the back of his neck, snaps his hips hard, and the jolt of it makes Zayn cry out. 

"So fucking- good," Ben breathes out. His voice is in Zayn’s ear and his dick is in Zayn’s arse and Zayn feels his eyes watering. His belly is hot and his dick is helplessly hard, aching, dragging against the sofa with a painful sort of pleasure. "So good-" 

Zayn just breathes, works his hips back, and when Ben bottoms out in him, Zayn slips away into his own head, and that’s so good. That’s what he needed. Away into his own head and nothing else making sense, just a blur of light and colors and sound. That’s what he needed.

\---

They split a bottle of wine after, sitting on Ben’s sofa and passing it back and forth. Zayn’s in his briefs and one of Ben’s jumpers, big on him but cosy and good-smelling, and Ben keeps an arm around him and doesn’t say anything when Zayn puts his head on his shoulder. 

"Glad you came over," Ben says softly, kissing the top of Zayn’s head. "I’ve missed you." 

Zayn keeps his eyes closed, takes a slow sip of wine. 

"Christmas is always a bit depressing, innit?" Ben says, with a huff of laughter. 

"Did you go home for Hanukkah?" Zayn asks, ignoring the question. 

"No." Ben takes the wine from him. "Not that close to my family, anyway, and it’s not like I’d be able to take time off for it."

Zayn nods. He’s starting to get drunk, slipping into a sleepy haze. It feels perfect. 

"I’ve got a few places to be tomorrow, friend’s places," Ben murmurs, petting Zayn’s head. "Christmas parties." 

He puts his face into Zayn’s hair, sighs. “Wish I could take you along.” 

Zayn feels a little flush of panic, but he gulps some wine and it fades away to a low hum. 

"Me too," he mumbles. That’s a lie, somewhat. He’d rather keep Ben in the fucking house, forever, stay with him inside where no one can see. 

"Forgot what that feels like," Ben says, his thumb stroking behind Zayn’s ear. "Going to events with you. Fucking loved that. Making people jealous." 

Zayn laughs shortly, grabs the wine back from Ben. 

"Probably make more people jealous with Harry," he says, taking a sip. 

"Don’t be silly." 

Zayn doesn’t move. He tips the wine bottle to his mouth again, because some stray emotion is trying to work its way up through his drunken daze and he doesn’t want it there. 

"You’re so beautiful," Ben says softly. "Don’t make me insult Harry, because he’s lovely, and he’s sweet. But Christ, watching people look at you-" 

Zayn’s face is red and hot. 

”- knowing they’d never get to touch you,” Ben whispers, his hand sliding down Zayn’s side and into his lap. “Knowing you were with me, you were mine.” 

Zayn’s hard again, helplessly, and Ben puts his hand down into Zayn’s briefs and curls it around his prick. 

"They’ll never hear you moan," Ben whispers, thumbing roughly over the head of Zayn’s dick, and Zayn makes a choked, whimpery sound in the back of his throat. "Yeah, like that. That was for me, wasn’t it? Just me." 

Zayn nods because it’s the truth. He moans all the fucking time, for the men he works for. He moans, and sighs, and screams if he has to. He pretends. He’s gotten good at it. 

But this - genuine pleasure, genuine arousal so heady it makes Zayn lose control of himself - that’s Ben’s only. 

"Do you like when I do this?" Ben asks, jerking him off, dry and a little uncomfortable and yet it makes Zayn’s skin fizz and spark all over. 

"Yeah," Zayn groans out. "Yeah." 

"C’mere, love," Ben murmurs, and he tugs Zayn onto his lap like a little kid, spreads his thighs and works him over with his hand. Zayn tips his head back against Ben’s broad shoulder, his throat exposed and vulnerable. "Fuck, that feels good, doesn’t it, beautiful?" 

Zayn’s lost in it, eyes closed, nuzzling blindly against Ben’s throat. 

"Such a pretty thing," Ben whispers, lifting his hand to Zayn’s mouth for Zayn to lick, and then tugging his dick again, his palm wet. 

The slickness of Ben’s palm makes it intense and hot and Zayn pants open-mouthed against Ben’s neck, makes little sounds that he’ll regret later, these unsexy choked little gasps.  

"Gorgeous," Ben mutters against his ear, squeezing the fat head of Zayn’s dick between his fingers, almost pinching it, the sensation making Zayn shudder hard. "Gorgeous, gorgeous boy. It’s alright. Come on now, love, let me make you come." 

Zayn squeezes his eyes shut when he spurts into Ben’s hand, his muscles clenching, and he keeps them shut as he comes down, as he feels the arousal start to ebb away. He still has them closed when Ben brings his hand up to Zayn’s face and says, “Taste yourself, sweetheart, go on.” 

Zayn doesn’t particularly want to, but he opens his mouth. 

It’s bitter and familiar. It’s just come, like anyone’s come, and it makes Ben hot, Zayn knows that, because Ben groans just watching him lick it off. 

It makes Ben even hotter when Zayn turns in Ben’s lap and slides to his knees between his spread legs, so Zayn does that, and ducks his head, and sucks Ben’s hard, waiting dick into his mouth. 

They pass out shortly after Ben comes, exhausted from wine and sex, flopping into Ben’s massive king bed and crawling under the covers, sleeping close together. Zayn’s quite drunk, but there’s a moment when he ducks his head under the duvet entirely until he’s all in darkness like a cave, takes a deep inhale, and can’t keep himself from grinning stupidly. 

\---

He wakes up late to an empty bed. 

Ben’s jumper is lying on the floor where Zayn discarded it at some point during the night, so Zayn scoops it up and pulls it over his head, pads out down the long hallway into the kitchen. 

Ben’s tapping away at his laptop, a mug of coffee steaming to his left, glasses on. He looks up when Zayn comes in, smiles faintly, eyes dragging down slowly over the length of Zayn’s body. 

"Morning, Mr. Malik." 

"Morning," Zayn says, trying not to blush, and he busies himself making a cup of tea and some toast. 

They sit in silence for a while at the kitchen table, Zayn reading a newspaper and Ben on his computer. It’s comfortable, soft. Zayn’s a bit happy, in a way that keeps creeping up on him. He’ll read a line over and over in the newspaper, six times, eight times, getting lost, and then snap to, looking up to see if Ben’s noticed. Ben never does. 

Finally Ben closes his laptop with a snap, yawns into his hand. 

"Can I tell you something?" he says, sheepishly, and Zayn looks up from his tea, tugs Ben’s jumper closer to his shoulders, shivering a little despite the well-heated room. 

"Yeah, course," he says, and Ben stares at him for a good long minute, so long Zayn’s stomach gives a wobble. 

See, Ben’s offered him mad things before.  _Mental_  things. A trip to Hawaii, a week in Thailand. He once asked Zayn if Zayn wanted to just “fuck off to Paris for a while”. 

Zayn always said no. He had to. There were rules.

"What?" he says, huffing a nervous laugh, trying not to sound at all eager. He sips his tea. 

"Don’t laugh," Ben says, rubbing a hand over his face. "But I’ve- I’ve been thinking about getting back with Meredith." 

He heaves a sigh, and Zayn blinks dazedly. 

"What?" he says, faintly. 

"I know." 

"But you’re, uh. I thought, like-"  

"We’ve been talking, lately," Ben says, sighing again. "And y’know, it’d have to be different. I’d stop, you know, the whole thing with Harry. I dunno, I just think she wants to try again." 

"Do you?" Zayn asks, keeping his voice very careful and blank. 

"Yeah," Ben breathes. "Yeah, I think so. It’s time, I think, you know, for me to settle down a bit. Maybe start a family. Actually do it properly." 

Zayn stares blankly at the table for a minute, then lifts his mug to take a sip of tea. 

"Wow," he says. 

"I know." 

"I just- I didn’t know that was, uh, what you wanted," Zayn says. 

Ben taps his finger against the rim of his mug. 

"It’s always been what I wanted," he says, absently. "And I think I used to pretend I could put it off, or something, by fucking around with, you know-"

"Hookers," Zayn says, and it sounds ugly, the way he says it. 

Ben looks at him, an eyebrow raising. 

"Bit crass."

Zayn’s face flushes.

"Anyway," Ben says, mildly. "I think it’s maybe time for me to, you know. Grow up." 

"Haven’t you got, like, a therapist you could tell this to?" Zayn asks. It comes out meaner than he wanted it to, even though he  _feels_  mean. He doesn’t want to sound it.

Ben’s eyebrows furrow. 

"Are you upset?" 

"No," Zayn snaps. He inhales shakily. "No. I’m- no, I’m not, I’m sorry." 

Ben lets out a breath, shakes his head bemusedly like he can’t even begin to understand Zayn, and Zayn stares at him for a long second before dropping his eyes. 

How does Ben see him? A pretty confidante, a good lay, an endless fount of attention, a dangerous little pleasure on the side - all of the fucking above? Zayn doesn’t know, and not knowing is making his bloody brain hurt. 

"I should - I should go," Zayn says, shifting in his chair. "I have a job tonight. I’ve got to run some errands." 

Ben scrapes his chair back, takes Zayn’s mug of tea. 

"Can you," Zayn says, tapping his hand nervously on the table, as Ben takes their cups to the sink. "You won’t, um. You won’t tell Simon about this, will you?" 

Ben huffs a laugh. “Course not.” 

Zayn nods. Part of him wants to tell Ben about last month, about Simon’s hand on his throat and the way he said  _this is your last warning_. 

He keeps his mouth shut. It’s not Ben’s business, anyway, is it. Zayn’s the one who showed up. Zayn’s always the one who shows up. 

Ben kisses him at the door, a gentle kiss on the mouth, and Zayn tries not to feel grateful for it. He wipes his mouth defiantly once the door is shut, and clatters down Ben’s icy front steps, tensing his body against the cold.

All of that was a mistake, maybe, but at this point it’s hard for Zayn to tell.

\---

Christmas Eve is fine. It hurts, but Zayn gets through it. He wakes up on Christmas Day with his throat dry from the two bowls he smoked to help himself sleep after he got home, bruised-dark rings around his wrists and ankles from the restraints. He dabs some ointment onto them, makes himself some toast, eats it standing up at the counter and scrolling through his phone. 

Ben’s texted him twice. 

 _Sure you’re alright? You seemed stressed_    
 _Left your tin of gingerbread. Harry would be gutted… xx_

Zayn ignores them in favor of rolling a joint. He takes it into the bath, lies there for two hours until he’s stoned and pruny and the water’s gone cold, and then it’s time to stand up and shower and get dressed, because he has a client. 

He’s reading Shakespeare’s sonnets, for the client, tonight. Love poems. Zayn trips over some of the words, but Charles doesn’t seem to mind, just hums quietly in his throat, sits there in bed with his back against the headboard and his arms crossed over his stomach. He’s wearing striped pyjamas, and Zayn is wearing boxers and a t-shirt, the blanket pulled over both of them. 

It’s oddly cozy, just to lie there, a book in his hands, reading slowly. 

"In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire," Zayn reads, softly, stifling a yawn. "That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, as the death bed whereon it must expire-" 

"Wait," Charles says, startling Zayn. "Start it over, please." 

Zayn looks over at him, and then starts back up at the top. “That time of year thou may’st in me behold…” 

He keeps reading until he hears a low, choked sob. 

Zayn’s shoulders tense, and he pauses. 

"Keep going, please," Charles says thickly. "I’m sorry." 

Zayn finishes the sonnet. Charles is crying, softly, Zayn’s pretty sure. He can feel the bed shaking but he doesn’t dare look.

"Do you want me, uh, to go on?" Zayn says, uncomfortably. 

"I’m very sorry," Charles says, wiping at his nose. "You just. You have such a lovely reading voice, I can’t- I can’t tell you." 

"Er. Thank you," Zayn says numbly, and there’s a long, awful silence. 

"I’m sorry," Charles repeats, sounding more composed. "I just. My wife, she loved that sonnet, she- uh, she. She read it at our wedding." 

Zayn sticks a fingernail into his mouth, stares down at his knees. 

"She’s dead, of course," Charles says, huffing out a breath. "Or you wouldn’t be here. Cancer, six years ago. Ovarian. I can’t - I can’t bear the thought of another woman in this bed. Do you understand that?" 

Zayn bites down hard on his cuticle and pain shoots up his finger.

"Yes," he says, taking his finger out of his mouth. His stomach aches. 

"I’d like you to read it again, please," Charles says, leaning his head back, closing his eyes. There’s wet on his cheek, glistening in the lines on his face, and Zayn pulls his gaze away, feeling like an intruder. 

He nods, and pulls the book up to him again. 

"That time of year thou may’st in me behold-" 

\---

He reads for another half an hour, until Charles is half-asleep and breathing peacefully, deep and slow.

Zayn reaches over to take a sip from his glass of water and Charles jerks awake, looks over at him. 

"What time is it?" he says hoarsely. 

"Um, 8:30," Zayn says, peering at the digital clock on the nightstand. 

"You should go." Charles takes the book out of Zayn’s hands, sets it gingerly on his nightstand. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to doze off." 

"It’s alright." 

Charles folds back the covers, carefully steps out of bed into his slippers, and Zayn stands up, running a hand through his quiff, grabbing for his jeans.

"I’ll make a cup of tea," Charles says, padding out of the room. 

Zayn stands there for a moment, his jeans undone. Something’s pushing at the bottom of his throat, the same feeling that’s been plaguing him since Harry left. He can feel it looming. 

He swallows hard against it and zips his jeans up. 

Charles’ made him a cup of Earl Grey, light and sweet, and they sit at the large dark-pine dining room table and drink together. 

They don’t speak for a while. Charles looks out the window, at the dark night, snow flurrying down outside. 

"Have you ever loved someone, Zayn?" he says, after a deep dreamy silence, Zayn getting lost in his own head, the tea mug warming his palms.

Zayn takes a moment to answer. 

There are people he’s loved. Of course, there are. There’s his family, his sisters. His mum and dad. Harry. 

Alec, he thought for a long while. He still does love Alec, for understanding him, for listening to his petty little teenage secrets, for telling him he was special. Though he thinks, sometimes, that maybe Alec did something a bit terrible to him. 

He shies away from that thought. No use in going over it now, is there? When all’s said and done, and Zayn’s older now, and wiser. 

And then: Ben. Ben, he did love Ben, he _does_  love-

"I don’t know," he says, out loud, and his voice sounds ragged. 

"How old are you?" Charles says quietly. 

"Twenty-three." 

Charles nods, watching him. 

"It’ll hurt, when it happens," he says, his eyes drifting back to the window. "But it’ll be worth it." 

Zayn takes another sip of his tea, hand trembling. 

It’ll hurt? It’ll - hurt? It already hurts. That’s  _bullshit_. Zayn doesn’t want it to fucking hurt anymore. 

The feeling is back, creeping up in his throat, and Zayn gulps hard at his lukewarm tea, clenches his jaw. 

"I have to go," he says, pushing his tea away from him. "Good- good night." 

"Happy Christmas," Charles says, looking at him, smiling sadly. Zayn hates that smile, that knowing smile, like Charles can see right through him, see how alike they are. 

"Happy Christmas," Zayn mutters back, and he throws his jacket over his shoulders, lets himself out the front door. 

He drives back to his flat, shuddering against the cold, staring straight ahead with a grim sort of determination. 

It’s cold, and empty, and Zayn takes a bottle of beer out of the fridge and cracks it open on the countertop. He takes a long sip, wipes his mouth. Shivers. 

His phone vibrates against his arse, and he digs it out of his jeans. 

Harry.  _happy christmas z i miss you xxxxxxxxxxxx_

He’s such an idiot. Zayn shakes his head, takes another gulp of beer. 

 _How’s home?,_ he types back. 

_it’s good. nothing ever changes here it’s … weird. eating lots. watching telly. how’s london??????_

Zayn huffs a flat laugh, takes his phone into his bedroom, lies down and sets the beer on the nightstand.

 _Fine_ ,  _all the same. just got off a job._

Harry’s reply is instantaneous.  _what else did you GET OFF? ;) ;)_

Harry really is such an idiot. Zayn rolls over onto his back, holds his phone above his head. 

_Ha ha. What time are you getting in Thurs?_

He tugs his duvet up to his neck, tries to warm up. 

_Like midday I think. come and fetch me?? xx_

Zayn digs his head into his pillow, clutches himself with an arm. Harry’s always warm, in bed, his soft sleepy body, the way he gets in Zayn’s personal space. It’s a pain in the summer, but right now, Zayn could really use- 

He stops himself. Taps out,  _yeah i’ll be there_ , and puts his phone away. 

\---

The next three days pass in a blur. Zayn smokes his way through his entire supply, has to call his dealer for more, meeting him in the slushy street outside a off-license in East London, after dark. 

When he gets home he spends forty-five minutes rolling six perfect joints, bent over his kitchen counter, and quickly smokes one, passes out in a daze. 

He knows it’s not great, when he gets like this. When he feels like he needs it because the hours aren’t passing quick enough and he’ll drown in swampy messy thoughts if he lets them tick by at normal speed. He knows it’s bad, unhealthy, what-fucking-ever. 

He knows, and he does it anyway. 

The night before Harry comes home, Zayn is lying in bed, lazily sucking on a blunt and ashing it into a little saucer next to him on the mattress. He’s playing Sudoku on his phone, and there are four more texts from Ben that he’s ignored over the past few days, and he is so, so tempted to respond. 

He’s thinking about being fucked, and how it feels. It took Zayn a while to learn to like it, if he’s honest. 

He was fourteen the first time, and he’d had two glasses of wine and he was alone in Alec’s house, because Zayn’s parents were taking Safaa to a netball game a few towns over and staying in a hotel, and Doniya was sleeping over at a friend’s. They left him at Alec’s without a second glance, which seems- fucked up, now, but bloody wicked at the time. 

He was tipsy on red wine and he was scared, when Alec stroked his body all over and said  _you’ll like this_ , as he spread Zayn’s legs. 

Zayn didn’t at all. He didn’t at  _all_. He cried, and Alec stroked his face after and said he was lovely, and perfect, and did so well. 

The spliff’s getting down to the dregs now, nearly burning Zayn’s fingertips, and he’s stoned already so he sets it down in the dish, lies his head down and closes his eyes. 

Harry’s first time was with a boy at school. They were both seventeen, and they were both sober, and Harry giggled as he described how he’d lit candles around his room, his parents out of town for the weekend, and it’d taken them about an hour to even get a finger in. 

Zayn squeezes his eyes shut harder. He has this story he tells himself in his head, that he was the one with Harry that night, that he was the one pushing gently inside him, in Harry’s childhood bed with candles flickering, fucking face-to-face with that giddy sort of young love Zayn’s only heard about secondhand. 

Or that Harry’s the one fucking him, and it’s Zayn’s first time, and he goes really slow and it doesn’t hurt.

Zayn doesn’t even think about sex with Harry like that, the way he does with Ben. But when he does imagine it, he just- he just knows it would be warm and Zayn would feel good. He wouldn’t care if they never even got to the sex bit. If it was just Harry on top of him, grounding him, a solid steady weight. 

He huffs out a loud breath, putting his wrist over his eyes, and reaches over to flick the light off. 

\---

And then it’s Thursday and Harry is coming home. 

Not  _home_. London. But still. 

Zayn makes tea, drinks it slowly, staring out the window. It snowed last night, and it’s still fresh and white and it looks clean, outside. Harry’ll like that. He likes the snow at first, and then once it’s slush he gets bothered about it, stroppy if it soaks the bottom of his jeans. 

He pulls up to the station at five minutes to twelve.

 _I’m outside,_  he types.  _nearly in??_

He turns the radio on, fiddles with the dial until it’s on Radio One- Harry’s favorite. There’s a stray empty water bottle on the floor, so he ducks down to pick it up, tosses it in the backseat.

When he lifts his head Harry’s right outside his window, pulling a face, and Zayn chokes out a surprised gasp, rolls his window down. 

"Bastard!" he says, icy air prickling at his face. Harry’s giggling, and he leans into Zayn’s window, gives him a kiss on the cheek, his lips cold and smooth. 

"You should’ve seen your face," he says, and Zayn just shakes his head disapprovingly and puts the window up, watches Harry come around the side of the car. He piles into the passenger seat, loud and bright-eyed and smelling of cold air and cologne and his shampoo. 

"Hiiii, Zaynie," he says, squeezing Zayn’s hand on the gearstick. He’s wearing fluffy mittens that look handmade. "You’re here!" 

"I’m here." 

"Shit, it’s good to be back." Harry settles himself into the seat, grinning wide. "Thanks for picking me up." 

"Of course." 

Harry turns up the radio, and Zayn pulls away from the curb. 

"Can we go back to yours?" he says, bouncing in his seat a little bit, peering out the window as they drive past a Harrod’s. "I’m starved and I’ve got, like,  _nothing_  at my place. Should we get takeaway? Or do you have food? I can cook if you want-“ 

"I have food," Zayn says, breathing out a laugh. 

"Goood," Harry says, rubbing his belly with his fluffy-mittened hand. "Absolutely starved. I mean, we had a fry-up this morning but I was all in a hurry coz I overslept so I only had like, three pieces of bacon and an egg. And a muffin on the train. But still." 

Zayn snorts, flicks his turn signal on, watches as Harry fumbles around on the floor for his bag, yanks something out, a cylinder wrapped in gaudy red and gold wrapping paper. 

"I brought you something," Harry says, biting his lip in a smile. 

"Can I guess what it is?" Zayn says, because Harry’s a predictable gift giver. He likes sweet, nice things, food or little trinkets or posh lotions. 

Harry looks at the package, then at Zayn, narrowing his eyes. He nods.

"It’s either, like, some biscuits, or chocolates," Zayn says. "Or like a candle. Or lotion or sommat. Something that smells good." 

Harry cracks up. 

"What?" Zayn says, grinning. "Did I get it right?" 

"I hate you," Harry chokes out, snorting. "I  _hate_ you.” 

"I got it, didn’t I." 

"It’s a candle," Harry says, and dissolves into laughter again before a minute before he composes himself. "It’s a candle that smells like fucking  _biscuits_.” 

"No it’s not." 

"Yes it is," Harry laughs, his eyes crinkling. "It’s gingerbread-scented." 

"You are so bloody predictable." 

"In my defense, it smells  _really good_ , okay?” Harry says, still grinning wide, white teeth flashing. “I got one for myself too.” 

Zayn just shakes his head, turns the radio up, hiding his smile in his collar. 

\---

They get in to Zayn’s, and Harry unwinds his scarf and shrugs off his jacket, wanders into the kitchen as is his usual custom. 

"Zayn," he says, sternly, and Zayn looks up as he walks in to see Harry holding a joint between two fingers. "Honestly?" 

Zayn snorts. 

"What if I were a cop?" Harry says, shaking his head, rolling the joint between his fingers. 

"How would you be a bloody cop?" 

Harry huffs an absent laugh. “That’s true. Can we smoke this?” 

Zayn has to force down a grin, and he digs his lighter out of his pocket, slides it across the counter. “Go for it, babe.” 

"Mm, thanks," Harry says, sticking it between his lips and lighting it. Zayn yanks out a carton of eggs, a half-finished loaf of bread, tosses them onto the counter. 

"Breakfast for tea?" he says, and Harry  _mmm_ s enthusiastically. 

They pass the joint back and forth and make scrambled eggs on toast, mugs of tea and some cubed fruit Harry’s brought back from home. Harry steals half of Zayn’s toast, and gets so distracted staring out the window that he has to reheat his tea in the microwave, and ends up mumbling something that sounds vaguely like  _what if, like… what if our hair was like, like trees, and the color changed with the seasons, and everyone was bald in the winter?_

Zayn’s not high enough to indulge that question, but Harry doesn’t seem to be expecting an answer, anyway. 

Harry’s sweet when he’s stoned, all heavy-lidded and quiet and affectionate. He’s always sweet, but he’s toned down when he smokes, muted in a good way. He stops looking at Zayn so intently. Zayn likes it.

They curl up on the sofa after dinner, Zayn reaching out lazily to flick the telly on and Harry immediately putting his face into Zayn’s neck, his arm over Zayn’s thigh. 

Zayn turns his face toward him and Harry gives him a kiss on the lips, no intent behind it, soft and chaste. 

"Hey," Zayn says, pulling back, and Harry smiles at him, slit-eyed, and puts his head back onto Zayn’s shoulder. 

"Hey," he says, a minute later. "Hey, so. I told my mum." 

Zayn’s petting his hair with great care and it takes a minute to answer. 

"What?" he says. "Wait, told her what?" 

"About, y'know. This." Harry hums in pleasure as Zayn scritches behind his ear, threading Harry’s silky curls between his fingers. "About me not being, like, a receptionist." 

"About what you do?" Zayn says, sitting up and facing him, wide-eyed. "You told her?" 

Harry looks at him with an affronted twist to his mouth, having been knocked off Zayn’s shoulder. 

"Yeah," he says, pouty. "And it was, like. It was fine." 

Zayn knows he’s staring, but he can’t help it. Harry can’t actually mean his mum was  _fine_ , with Harry fucking for money, with Harry being a whore. She couldn’t be fine with that.

"I mean," Harry says, yawning, tucking his knee up to his chest on the sofa. "It’s not like she was super happy about it, but she - she was fine. She said, y’know, she said I can’t do it forever, but if it’s safe and I’m the one choosing to do it and it helps me pay my rent, she’s, she’s alright with it." 

"Bloody hell," Zayn says, weakly. 

"I know, right." Harry grins at him. "I didn’t tell her about, like. The beginning parts, before - before I met you and Simon. You know? That part would just freak her out, coz it was all a bit fucked, but- I dunno, I was just like, why should I be keeping this from my mum? I mean, she’s my  _mum_ , she’s always gonna love me, I should just - be honest.” 

"Yeah," Zayn says, hoarsely. He keeps his hands under the blanket because they’re trembling. "No, that’s. That’s great, Haz." 

"Gem knows too," Harry says, yawning again, reaching forward to pick up his cup of tea. "I was, like, a bit nervous, I think? To tell them? But I feel really, like. Good about it now." 

He smiles to himself over the rim of the mug, takes a sip, and Zayn nods. His jaw hurts from clenching it. That really is good, it’s so good, that Harry can say that to his mum, that it’s all fine. That’s so good. 

Zayn doesn’t think about his own mum because that’s irrelevant. 

"Anyway, now Gem wants to come down to London and see my fancy hooker flat, so," Harry says, snorting. "That might happen. You’d love her, she’s the best." 

"Yeah," Zayn says, his throat feeling clogged. He coughs. "That’d be really nice." 

"Yeah," Harry agrees, stretching his legs out onto the sofa away from Zayn until his big feet hang over the side, then cuddling his head into Zayn’s lap, hair spreading out over the nest of blankets they’re both wrapped in. 

Zayn puts his hand on Harry’s chest, spreads it wide. He can feel Harry’s heartbeat under his palm, slow and steady. 

"Missed you," Harry mumbles. 

Zayn’s throat clenches all a sudden, and he taps his hand a few times against Harry’s chest. 

"You too," he says, trying not to let the feeling show in his voice. He doesn’t know what feeling it is, anyway. 

"Was everything okay?" Harry says, sleepily, pulling the blanket up to his chin. "Work and everything?" 

"Yeah," Zayn murmurs. It wasn’t okay, not really. Having sex with Ben, and what Ben said about his ex-wife, and the bruises on Zayn’s wrists, and the way Charles cried in bed. The hours he’s spent high or drunk or both, out of it, alone, drowning himself, the scared feeling that’s sitting in the bottom of his throat. None of it is okay, exactly. Maybe the opposite.

"Yeah," Zayn says, soft and soothing, stroking his hand through Harry’s hair, watching him slowly drift into sleep, watching Harry’s eyes flutter closed. Harry looks so sweet right then, unfairly so, like an infant, completely at peace. "Yeah, babe, it’s all good." 

**HARRY**

"Hiya, Harold!" Nick sings into the phone when Harry picks up. Harry laughs, peeks out the window of his flat to see if the car's showed up yet. 

"Hi, Grim." 

"What can I do for you, darling?" 

"You called me, Nick," Harry says, amused. He peers in the mirror next to the door, ruffles his hair. He just got it cut last week, and it looks good, shiny. Freshly-washed. He pouts his lips at his reflection, then sticks his tongue out, laughing.

"Did I?" Nick says, laughing giddily. "Oh my god, I did. I'm fucking knackered. Sorry. Uhh, what was I… oh yeah. Do you want to come over tonight? Could get a pizza in or sommat. I've got a very adorable dog who misses you very much…" 

"I'm working," Harry says regretfully. "I want to, though. Maybe after?" 

"You're not, um. Staying the night? At work?" Nick asks, gingerly. He's been a bit wary of it all, ever since Harry told him last month. It's annoying, but it can't be helped, really. 

"Nah, it's just a couple hours," Harry says, as a horn beeps outside. "On my way over there, actually. Um, can I call you after? Or just come over?" 

"I'll be home after seven, I'm doing happy hour with Pix and Gellz. Text me, yeah?" 

"Yeah," Harry says, holding the phone under his ear and locking the door of his flat behind him. "I will." 

"Bye, Hazza."  

Harry hangs up, pounding down the stairs, and slides breathlessly into the backseat of the cab. 

"Sorry!" he says contritely. "Umm, I'm going to, like, - let me see, sorry - Brixton and Oxford Street?" 

The cab driver nods, and Harry sits back in his seat, rubs his palms over his thighs, opens his email to reread the intake form. 

He actually gets to keep his clothes on for this job, which is sort of nice. Well. He'll only get to wear tight black briefs and a white vest, but that's more clothes than usual. 

The bloke wants him to make himself at home. Wants him to undress, get comfortable. And then he wants to watch Harry eat until he can't anymore. 

That's it, just watch. 

Seems fun. 

Simon told him no one wanted this gig coz they're scared of putting on weight, but Harry's not too bothered. He'll always have a bit of extra flesh on his hips, and if he ever loses too much his face isn't as round and people tend to like it like that, so. Plus, it's only one  _time_. He's fine. It seems  _mad_  to turn it down. Free food, and nothing that hurts, and no real sex. Harry should be the one paying. 

The man is in his thirties with a kind, anxious face, blonde hair. He's ugly in a generic kind of way, his features just not quite matching up, nothing that stands out but nothing that draws Harry to him either. He beckons Harry inside, chewing his lip nervously, flushes when Harry gives him a soft kiss on the cheek. 

"Hi," he says, and Harry pulls back, says, "Hi, it's lovely to meet you." 

"You too, I'm- I'm Greg," the man says, stammering a bit. "I- uh. This is my flat. I mean, obviously. Shit. Sorry, I've never done this before." 

"S'alright," Harry says, already deciding he's quite fond of this one. Inexperience bores him sometimes, but it can be endearing, if the person doesn't try and cover it up with roughness or impatience. "My name's Harry. Is there somewhere I could put my stuff down?" 

"Yeah, yes," Greg says, ushering him into a living room. It's a small but tidy flat, nothing that fancy, which surprises Harry. The amount Greg's paying - well, it's nothing compared to Ben, but it's still a big bloody chunk. "Uh, anywhere is fine, honestly. Watch out for cat hair." 

"You've got a cat?" Harry says, pleased. 

"Yeah, she's, uh. I shut her in the bedroom. You said no allergies, right?" 

"No, no allergies." Harry sets his bag down. "I love cats." 

Greg chokes out a little laugh, rubbing at the flushed back of his neck. 

"What's her name?" 

"Uhh, Alison," Greg says, his face red. 

"That's weird," Harry says, grinning. "I like it." 

He faces Greg, starts to unbutton his shirt, and Greg goes even redder and turns around. 

"I'll, uh, I'll let you get dressed," he says. "Just - just come into the kitchen when you're done, if you don't mind. You, um, you read, like, what I wanted?" 

"Yeah, yeah, just a mo," Harry says reassuringly. Greg disappears into the kitchen, and Harry yanks off his shirt, unzips his jeans. The vest he's wearing is worn-in and soft but clean, and his briefs are simple, just black cotton.  _Nothing fancy_ , Greg said on the form. 

He pads into the small kitchen, raises an eyebrow at the spread. There's a bowl of what looks like chocolate mousse, a plate of biscuits, three slices of cheesecake, a platter of lemon bars. Greg has his back to him at the counter, and when he hears Harry he turns, quickly, his face still flushed. 

"Hi," he says. "Um. So." 

"This looks amazing," Harry says, before Greg feels like he needs to explain himself, and he's not sure exactly how to do this, what'll work best, but he dips his finger in the whip cream on top of the chocolate mousse, licks it off. "Thank you." 

"Just, like, eat what you like," Greg says, watching him with wide eyes, and Harry sticks his finger in the mousse again, whip cream and chocolate alike, sucks it off luxuriously. It really is fucking delicious. This job might make him ill, but he's going to enjoy it. 

The mousse is good enough to warrant his attention for a while, so he leans against the counter, puts his fingers shamelessly into the cool creaminess of it and sucks it off, loud and slow, humming with pleasure as he eats with his hands. Greg leans against the fridge and watches him. 

It'd be weird, if Harry were a self-conscious person. Thank fuck he's used to being watched, and he's used to weird. 

"That's really good," Harry says, licking his palm, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling sort of dirty about it. "Are these lemon bars?" 

"Yeah," Greg says hoarsely, and Harry sneaks a look at him. He's like a deer in headlights, and his dick is half-hard and visible in his jeans.

Harry plucks a piece of lemon bar off, drops it on his tongue, lets it spread rich and sweet through his mouth. "Mmm," he hums. "These are so good." 

Greg nods, biting his bottom lip hard. 

"Could eat the whole plate," Harry says, leaning over to fetch himself some more. The next one he takes in two bites. The sugar makes his lips pucker and his mouth is dry, so he wanders over to the fridge, calculatedly casual. 

"Have anything to wash it down?" he says, looking back at Greg. 

"Yeah," Greg breathes out. "Um. Milk, I've got, or squash, or- or Diet Coke, I suppose, I dunno what you like-" 

"Milk sounds perfect," Harry says, pulling out the jug, and Greg fumbles to pour him a glass. Harry gulps at it, takes the glass back over to the counter and forks up a bite of cheesecake. 

It feels weird, insincere, to keep repeating the same words over and over, so instead Harry just - tries to enjoy himself. He eats steadily, drinks one glass of milk and then another. Greg sits on a stool and watches him, sipping a glass of water, his hand shaking just slightly. 

"Sure you don't want some?" Harry says eventually, to stall for time, because his belly's starting to feel full and heavy, and it's harder and harder for him to convince himself to keep taking bites. 

"No, no, that's not," Greg says, breathlessly. "That's not, um. No. It's alright." 

"It's good," Harry says, licking his thumb. The sugar's going to his head, and his limbs feel heavy and drowsy. It's an odd sensation, a bit like being high. 

"Good." Greg bites his lip again, hard, staring at Harry's finger in his mouth.

"I dunno if I can, uh," Harry says, trying to sound sexy even while he backs out. "Like, eat anymore." 

Greg blinks at him, dazed, and then shakes himself. 

"Yeah," he says, his cheeks starting to go red again. "It's alright, it's alright, I don't want- you to hurt yourself or anything." 

Harry gamely picks up another lemon bar, feeling oddly reckless. "Maybe, like. If you fed it to me." 

Greg's jaw drops just a bit, and Harry knows he's pushed the right button.

"I didn't- I didn't pay for that," Greg says unsteadily, and Harry brings the bar over to him, widens his legs so he's standing over Greg on the stool. 

"It's alright," he says. "I want you to." 

Greg takes the bar, hand shaking so much he nearly drops it, and Harry leans down and opens his mouth. 

He shivers when Greg puts a piece delicately between his lips, and swipes his tongue out to catch the crumbs and the retreating tip of Greg's finger. 

"Mm," he says, swallowing it fast. It just tastes like sugar, now, because his mouth is saturated with sweet. His head is buzzing, but he's not backing out just yet. He doesn't feel like he's done his job, yet. "More?" 

"Fucking hell," Greg mumbles under his breath, and puts another chunk into his mouth. Harry catches Greg's wrist by the hand, keeps his fingers there, licks off the sticky filling. Greg whimpers in his throat. 

"Keep going, please," Harry says, slowly. He feels sexy watching Greg watch him, the nice sort of sexiness he only gets with good clients. Where it looks like they can't fucking believe Harry's even in their presence. Reverent. 

Greg gulps audibly, but he keeps feeding Harry, until the bar is gone and Harry is starting to hurt, a bit. He moans around the last bite, makes it convincing and pained, and Greg touches his sticky fingers gently against Harry's face. 

Harry opens his eyes, licking his mouth, breathing hard.

"Sorry," Greg breathes out, putting his hand down. 

"S'alright," Harry says, rubbing his stomach. He notices Greg watching, lifts up his shirt so Greg can see, groans softly as he touches himself. It feels like acting, but a good kind of acting, the kind Harry wants to be doing. The fun part of this kind of work, figuring out what someone likes and parceling it out to them and basking in their gratitude. 

Greg leans forward, swaying, and Harry murmurs encouragingly when he puts his face against Harry's stomach. The touch of skin makes Harry shiver, and Greg opens his mouth, kisses the slope of his belly, softly and chastely. His mouth is warm.

Harry strokes his hair, and Greg pulls his face away at the touch. 

"Sorry," he says, voice cracking. "Sorry. God. I'm so sorry." 

"It's alright," Harry says quietly, petting his hair some more like he's calming a spooked horse. "It's okay." 

"You're just really - really beautiful," Greg says, and he chokes out a breath. "God. I'm sorry." 

"It's okay." 

"I just- I'm sorry I made you do this. Fucking hell." 

"Hey," Harry says, tipping Greg's face up to his. "This is the best time I've had in a while, okay?" 

Greg blinks at him. 

"No one's ever said they liked my stomach before," Harry says, prodding it unselfconsciously. "So that's nice."

Greg's face is so red. 

"That's mad," he says. "It's so - lovely. You're so lovely. God.  _Sorry_." 

"Stop saying sorry, it's alright." 

Harry pats his head and backs away a little bit to lean against the counter, almost delighted at the strange way his body feels, all his blood rushing to his stomach to digest and his limbs gone tingly. It's a new sensation, like the times he's eaten too much at Christmas and had to collapse in a heap on the sofa for a few hours, but more intense. 

"Reckon I could finish that cheesecake," he says, shrugging. 

"You don't have to," Greg says anxiously. "You've done- you've done more than enough." 

"Feed it to me in the other room," Harry says. "I need to sit down." 

He's booked for two hours and it's only been around 90 minutes, so he doesn't mind. With some clients he'd do anything to duck out early, to cut the time by five minutes or ten minutes or however he can.

But he's feeling generous today. So what. 

He finishes it in the end, sprawled with his legs out and his head tipped back, letting Greg feed him bit by bit with his hand, licking his fingers. Afterwards he lies his head back, exhausted, closes his eyes. He's tingling all over, now, and he feels oversensitive and strange and the tiniest bit sick. It's not that bad. Different than sex. Harry can sort of see the appeal. 

Greg stands up, and Harry hears plates clink in the kitchen. When he opens his eyes Greg's just bending down to place a glass of water in front of him, and then sitting gingerly on the sofa, a good foot away from Harry, watching him with those same wide, disbelieving eyes. 

Harry gives him a lazy smile and puts a hand over his stomach. 

"Feels nice," he says. 

"Yeah?" Greg breathes out hopefully.

Harry nods, slowly. 

Greg just stares at him. 

"Hey," Harry says, yawning. "Not to be an arsehole, but you're not exactly, like - like you're not quite as well-off as most of the people who go through my agency." 

He tries to sit up a little bit, and his stomach twinges, so he stays reclined, exhales carefully. 

"Yeah, I. Um, I saved up, I guess," Greg says shyly.

"You saved up for this?" Harry asks softly, genuinely curious. Greg's paying two thousand pounds for the pleasure of buying Harry a lot of food and watching him eat. 

Greg runs a hand through his hair. "Stupid. I know." 

"I didn't say that." 

"I'm just, um. My ex-boyfriend slept with someone else last year and I was sort of gutted - and I suppose I never even told him I fancied this kind of thing, and he wouldn't have liked it anyway, and I just. I just- sorry. You so don't need to hear this." 

"I'm sorry about your boyfriend," Harry says quietly. "Sounds like a bastard." 

Greg smiles crookedly at his folded hands. 

"It's alright," he says. "I've never- I've never paid for, for sex before. Not that this is sex exactly. I just - sorry if I've been weird. I've got like no clue what I'm doing. No one's ever wanted to- to do this with me, ever. I've never t-told anyone. Which is probably why I'm, you know. Paying for it." 

He scrubs a hand over his face. "I literally can't stop talking. Please ignore me." 

Harry huffs out a laugh. His eyelids are starting to feel heavy, which means it's time to go. Greg's nice, and Harry's pretty sure he's not an axe murderer, but there's no bloody way Harry would ever let himself fall asleep here. 

He forces himself to sit up, lets out a hiccup. 

"Thanks," he says, reaching out to touch Greg's knee, smiling at him. He wants it to feel genuine because it is, mostly. In a way. "Most fun I've had on the job for a while, honestly." 

Greg nods, eyes scanning desperately over him like he's trying to drink it in as much as possible before Harry leaves. 

"Thank you," he says. "I, um. I'm sorry if it- if I made you do anything-" 

He stops, grimacing. "Shit. Obviously I made you do things, that's the point of all this, innit."

"Hey," Harry says, touching his knee again. "This is my job, alright? And you made it fun for me. It's alright. You're perfectly alright." 

Greg nods again, slowly and heavily, his mouth wobbling a little. 

"Forget about that bloody ex-boyfriend of yours," Harry murmurs. "Alright?" 

Greg laughs, sourly. "Yeah." 

Harry kisses him on the cheek, again. 

"I'll just get dressed," he says, and Greg nods, 

His jeans won't close. Harry huffs out a laugh, tugs his jacket down over the unzipped fly. 

Greg's in the kitchen, sticking dishes in the sink, his back hunched and the water running. 

Harry coughs, loud enough to get his attention, and Greg jerks around to look at him, shuts the water off. 

"I'll head out," Harry says. "Uhh, I hope, like. That was alright?" 

"Yeah," Greg says, on an exhale. "Yeah. It was- yeah. Thank you." 

Harry watches him for a second, Greg all flushed and not meeting his eyes. 

"Okay," he says, swallowing. "Well. Have a good night." 

"Thanks, you too," Greg mutters. "I- thanks. Seriously." 

Harry gets the tiniest clench of sadness in his stomach. Could just be the food. 

"Night," he says again, quietly, and he lets himself out. 

\---

Nick's home when Harry shows up. He's got a vodka-tonic in hand and Pig curled up next to him and he's busily chatting on the phone with someone named Collette who is apparently trying to convince Nick to get up early and go running with her tomorrow. 

"Abso- _lutely_  not, I'm having a lie-in," Nick says into the phone as he waves Harry inside, kissing his cheek. Harry's a bit dizzy still, and he goes straight to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. "Because I deserve it, Collette. I'm worth it. Maybe I'm born with it, maybe it's Maybelline- no, I don't know what I'm talking about either." 

Harry snorts, flopping down onto the sofa next to Nick. He arches his back, puts a hand on his sore belly, and Nick looks over at him, raising an eyebrow bemusedly. 

Harry just smiles at him, burps softly. Nick wrinkles his nose and pokes Harry in the gut. 

"No, I know I- well, no, I'm not going out tonight. Because I've got someone over. Will you - honestly? Will you calm down. No, he's not a model. Is that - is that Sadie you're with? Shush, you harridans, he's right here." 

Harry poses very sexily with his hand behind his head, belly still poking out, and Nick laughs silently at him, his eyes crinkling warmly.  

"Yes, he's fit," he says, winking at him. " _Yes_ , he's legal! Jesus Christ, what do you take me for? You know what, I don't have to bloody take this abuse. I'll call you tomorrow, you awful woman. Yes. Yeah, love you too. Bye." 

 He hangs up, tosses his phone aside, and Harry says, "I'm fit, huh?" 

"You're a pain," Nick says, sliding his hand across Harry's stomach and tickling his hip. Harry yelps, wiggles, his skin sensitive.

"Don't!" he says, batting Nick's hand away. "Shit, careful." 

"What's wrong?" Nick asks, stealing Harry's glass of water and taking a gulp. "Wait, is that water? Boring. Get some vodka down you, I've already started." 

"I'll probably be sick," Harry says, sighing. 

"How was, uh. How was work?" 

Harry hums, considering it. "Weird." 

"Bad weird or good weird? Like, ropes and bondage and shit? Ooh, did you have to put a cock ring on? I've always wanted to try that. Never have. Does that mean I'm boring?" He looks thoughtful.  

"My life's way less exciting than you think," Harry says, breathing out a laugh. "I dunno. Just weird. You don't even want to know what I've eaten in the past two hours." 

Nick's jaw drops. "Not… like… piss or something?" he whispers. 

"Jesus, Nick!" Harry yelps, smacking him. "No!" 

"Well, I don't know!"

"I don't eat piss. First of all, wouldn't you  _drink_  it, and second of all… I- god. You're such an idiot. It was just this guy who got off on watching me eat." 

Nick sits back, confused. "Like, off his body?" 

"No," Harry laughs. "In general." 

Nick hums. "You know what, I'm not even gonna ask." 

"Fine by me," Harry says, cuddling into his side, humming happily when Nick puts a warm arm around his shoulders. "What are we watching?"  


	3. three

**ZAYN**

It's not until February that things fall apart completely. 

Zayn's at an event with Simon - a posh dinner at some massive restaurant in Central London. The place is full of industry types, fashionistas and music producers and telly and radio people. It's a rare occasion that Simon takes him along as a date, but apparently there are a few potential clients in the crowd, and they'd like to see Zayn in action. 

Zayn can do that. He's been working less lately, Simon not calling or emailing him as often. His days stretch long and monotonous and he could use the work. Harry, by contrast, has been picking up jobs quick as anything. Zayn would feel envious, but he's too numb about it. 

The truth is, he knows he's been off lately. Lackluster, not smiley, not sweet, not accommodating. He's slacked off and it shows, in the lower numbers of people who call Simon back wanting more. 

Zayn's not sure why. His heart hurts, sort of, in this way he doesn't know what to do with. Not his heart, maybe. His chest. His head. He has these strange sprawling nightmares, and he cries almost every time he gets high, so he's stopped doing that with other people because it's embarrassing. 

Harry's not caught on, yet. Zayn's grateful for it. 

He's standing at the bar, sipping a vodka and listening to Simon prattle on about something boring to the woman next to him, when he feels a hand on his elbow. 

It's Ben. Zayn nearly chokes on his drink. 

"Hi," Ben says, softly, taking advantage of Simon's turned back to grin at Zayn, wicked and knowing, and brush a kiss against his cheek. They haven't slept together since Christmas, but they text, sometimes, when Zayn's lonely or Ben's bored. Ben's wife doesn't want to start back up with him, and for a while Zayn thought that meant Ben would invite him over, start this whole thing again, but - Ben hasn't asked. He's just kept calling on Harry, fucking Harry, taking Harry out. Zayn hates that he sees it as rejection. 

"Hi," Zayn says stiffly, lifting his glass to his mouth. 

"Good to see you, Simon," Ben says, in a more audible voice, as Simon turns around. 

"Ah, Mr. Winston, fantastic to see you," Simon says cheerfully, reaching across Zayn to shake his hand. 

"What a treat, to see Mr. Malik out at an event," Ben says, voice warm. "It's been ages, hasn't it, Zayn?" 

"Yes," Zayn says shortly. He sips his drink. 

"How's our Harry doing, then, Mr. Winston?" Simon says, smiling broadly, gulping at his whiskey-soda. "Noticed you didn't bring him tonight."

"Oh, he's lovely, he's lovely," Ben says absently, smiling at Zayn, his eyes warm like a bath. "No complaints. As always, Simon, you provide the best." 

His voice drops, and Zayn's cheeks go red. It feels glaringly obvious, all a sudden, the teasing tone in Ben's voice and his eyes all over Zayn.  _He fucked me_ , Zayn thinks, terrified.  _He fucked me and Simon can see it, he can_ - 

"I try," Simon says, easily, but there's a hardness to his voice that sets Zayn on edge. "If you'll excuse us, Mr. Winston. Have a wonderful night." 

"You too," Ben says, shaking Simon's hand again, and then touching Zayn's wrist where it's lying on the bartop. "Always lovely to see you, Mr. Malik." 

Zayn doesn't say anything, just ducks his head deferentially, forcing a smile, and follows Simon away. 

He's about to turn and go back to their table when Simon looks back at him and says, "Why don't you join me for a fag, Zayn. Outside." 

Zayn swallows hard. 

"I think dinner's going to be served soon," he says. 

"Outside," Simon says, voice clipped, and Zayn draws in a wobbly breath and follows him.

\---

There's an alley out the back door of the restaurant, and Zayn steps out into the chill air, grabs his pack of fags out of his pocket, glancing over to see if Simon has his own or if he'll want to bum one. 

But Simon's just watching him, his face set. 

"What?" Zayn asks, hands shaking a little as he fumbles for a cigarette. 

"Give me your phone," Simon says, voice tight.

"What?" Zayn tries to laugh. 

"Give me your fucking phone," Simon says, teeth baring. "I won't ask again." 

Zayn exhales, frightened, and grabs his phone from his jacket pocket. 

Simon takes it, swipes it open. 

"What're you doing," Zayn asks, knowing, suddenly, what Simon's after. Shit. Shit. He's deleted Ben's number but the messages are fresh, and it won't take much for Simon to realize that they're from Ben. 

Simon doesn't respond. He scrolls down Zayn's messages, and then stops, and Zayn knows he's caught. 

He stands there stock-still, breath puffing in white clouds, fast and panicky. 

Simon clicks the screen with his thumb, reads for a minute, his face tight. He scrolls, one eyebrow raising, and Zayn knows he's seeing the dirty texts, from a few weeks ago - the shit Ben sent about Zayn's mouth and his arse. Zayn should have fucking deleted them. He's so, so stupid. 

"It was only one time," Zayn says, voice weak, and Simon says without looking up, "Keep your fucking mouth shut." 

Zayn keeps his mouth shut, and Simon turns the screen off with a click of his thumb, slides the phone into his own pocket. He's perfectly still, his jaw clenched. 

"Zayn," he says, slowly, dangerously. "Who bought you that phone?" 

Zayn stares at him. 

"You did," he says, shakily. 

"Who pays for your car?"

Zayn's head hurts. "You do." 

"And your flat, Zayn? Who pays the rent on that fucking flat of yours?" 

"You do," Zayn mumbles. 

Simon nods, a few times. 

"I think this is over, isn't it," he says, detachedly. 

"Simon, it was just- it was a mistake, alright-" 

He's cut off by a right hook to the jaw, so hard it nearly knocks him on his arse, Simon's fist connecting with Zayn's cheekbone with a solid crack. 

It hurts like  _mad_. A second of numb shock and then the pain rushes in, sharp and throbbing in his nose, his mouth. Zayn whimpers, involuntarily, and lifts his hand to his face. 

"Please," he gasps, right before he takes another hit, Simon getting the side of his mouth with his knuckles. Zayn goes down this time, sprawling arse over heels in the caked grey snow at the side of the alleyway, soaking wet through his trousers. 

That one hurts worse, sharp and fast, and it takes him a second to open his eyes. 

When he does, Simon's standing over him, looking coolly furious. 

Zayn spits out a mouthful of warm saliva and realizes it's blood when it stains the snow red. The sight of it makes him gag, and more blood spills from his mouth, dripping slow to the ground. Everything tastes and smells of iron. 

"I'll give you a day to move out," Simon says, low in his throat. "Leave you with five hundred quid for severance." 

Zayn has about ten times that in his bank account. 

"You can't do that," he says, voice wobbly. There's blood and saliva smeared on his chin, and he wipes it off frantically with his hands, feeling sick. "That's my money-" 

"You ungrateful little bitch," Simon says, letting out something that might be laughter. "Your money is my money, Malik. I opened the account, I can close it. What're you going to do, sue me?" 

"I earned that bloody money!" Zayn yells, panicky, thinking of the cocks he's sucked for it, the shit he's gone through- 

"And you lost the fucking privilege to it," Simon says. "That's life, isn't it." 

"Fuck you," Zayn spits, and that's when Simon kicks him in the stomach. Zayn doubles up, groaning, eyes squeezing shut against the pain.

"I'll be in touch," Simon says from above him. "Noon, your flat. Tomorrow. Be there. And get your shit packed up. If you try to withdraw any money from your account, you'll bloody wish you hadn't."  

"You can't do this," Zayn chokes out. "Simon-" 

"Oh, sweetheart," Simon says, very low, leaning down til he's close to Zayn's ear. "I can do whatever the fuck I want with you." 

Zayn hears his footsteps crunch away through the snow. 

\---

He could run, maybe. That's where his mind goes, when he's hobbling the mile and a half back to his place, no cash for a cab and no phone to call for one, anyway. 

He could empty his account, get the fuck out of town. Run. 

In the end, though, he's scared, and he's so much better at doing what he's told than he is at breaking the rules. 

He's like a house cat, pampered, paralyzed. Even as he thinks it, a voice in his head says, quietly -  _better than a stray, innit?_

Simon shows up at twelve noon the next day, dressed in a suit and sunglasses, his face hard. 

He explains it all, in his cold voice. Five hundred quid in cash, no access to his client list, no more perks, no more flat, no more nothing. If he contacts a former client, Simon will find out. If he shows his fucking face again, Simon will find out, and he will take care of it. 

Zayn listens numbly. 

"I was thinking, last night, about how to motivate you," Simon says quietly, tapping his fingers on Zayn's kitchen counter. "To stay away, from Mr. Winston, and from Harry. To stay away from my business." 

Zayn gnaws at his thumbnail, staring at the wall. He can't look at Simon. 

"And I was thinking, well - what do you care about?" Simon sounds thoughtful. "Not your family, of course." 

He lets that sit, heavy in the air, and then says very softly, "Harry is really such a - a  _trusting_ boy, isn't he?" 

Zayn looks up, warily. 

Simon's watching him.

"He'd think nothing of it if I asked him to come over, at night," he says, face impassive. "Christ, what a tragedy that would be. Such a pretty boy, to be found face-down in the Thames. People would go mad with it. That lovely face on the front of every paper. I bet they wouldn't even mention he was a whore." 

"You wouldn't," Zayn says, voice so choked it's nearly a whisper. "You wouldn't do that." 

Simon smiles faintly, almost pityingly. "You're a bit naive yourself, aren't you, Zayn?" 

Zayn swallows hard. 

"Harry has a family," Simon says, idly fingering the silver lighter he keeps in his pocket. Zayn watches his fingers move. "Sweet family, too. That older sister of his - Gemma, is it? She'd be shattered." 

Zayn keeps very still, because he's scared he'll cry. That would be the absolute worst thing he could do at this point, he's sure of it. 

"They'd come down to London, make a big stink of it, send out search parties, put up flyers." Simon sounds amused. "Wouldn't take long to find him, though. He might have to spend a few days in the water first, but someone would stumble upon him eventually. Do you know what that does to someone's skin, Zayn? He wouldn't be so pretty after a few days. Closed-casket funeral, that one." 

"I won't- I won't," Zayn stumbles out, his cheeks burning with the effort not to cry. "I won't-" 

"I just want you to understand, Zayn, what's at stake here," Simon says seriously. 

"I do, I do understand," Zayn stammers. "Please." 

"Harry's an asset, right now, but I fear he could become a liability very quickly." Simon looks sad. "I don't want that to happen. He has so much promise." 

"Please, I won't- talk to him, or- or to Ben, I swear to God," Zayn says shakily. "I swear." 

Simon comes towards him, pulls Zayn toward him with a hand on the back of his neck, kisses his temple. It's oddly tender. Zayn's jaw aches, where Simon hit him the night before. 

"You had promise too," Simon says softly. "You really did." 

Zayn doesn't say anything. He doesn't dare step back, or move. He can't stop thinking about Harry, Harry's sweet smile and his lifeless body, his pink flushed cheeks and the way his face would bloat after a day in the river. 

Simon can feel him trembling, Zayn knows that. Simon pulls back, pats Zayn's cheek. 

"Well then," he says. "I guess this is goodbye." 

Zayn sucks in a breath. 

"I'd be good," he says, wobbly, a last-ditch attempt, panic hot in his throat. "I'd be good, I swear, if you - if you took me back, Simon. I swear to God I'd be better, I wouldn't fuck around with Mr. Winston-" 

"Shh," Simon says, touching his cheek again. "It's so embarrassing to hear you beg, darling. I can't stand it." 

"I swear," Zayn repeats, a stray tear dropping hot onto his cheek. He makes a choked sound in his throat. "Simon, please-" 

"Don't do that," Simon says brusquely, taking his hand off Zayn's cheek. "You're better than that." 

Zayn's not. He's really not.

Simon pats his hand against the countertop, and says, "Alright, then. Time to go, Mr. Malik." 

Zayn exhales, rubs at his face with one hand and shoulders his bag. 

"I'm so glad we could be civil about this," Simon says, as he walks Zayn to the door of his flat. His quiet small flat, Zayn's first place in London. The first real bed he slept in that didn't belong to someone paying. 

Zayn wants to stay so badly. He'd do anything for it. He'd go to his knees right here, get Simon off with his mouth, never look at Ben again, never- 

His chest tightens with an impending sob, and Simon puts his hand on the back of Zayn's neck. 

"Give me your flat key, darling," he murmurs. 

Zayn digs it out of his pocket with shaking hands. 

"Car keys-" 

"They're on- on the countertop," Zayn says. 

"Good boy." Simon runs his heavy hand down Zayn's back. "God, you were a mutt when I first found you. Do you remember?" 

Zayn remembers. He doesn't nod, though. 

"Go on, then," Simon says, opening the door. "Be careful, Zayn. I'd really hate to have to hurt anyone." 

Zayn turns back to look at him, and Simon's smiling, something full of teeth with a promise of pain. 

Some awful part of him wants to say thank you, because without Simon, Zayn never would have survived. 

He fights the urge, though. Just turns away, sucks in a shaking breath and walks down the steps.

\---

He knows, he knows that the most important thing to do is to get cash flowing in again. He has five hundred quid and a designer watch and a backpack full of expensive clothes and that's  _nothing_ , that's a drop in the ocean, that won't last him the month. The  _week_. 

There's a moment, that first afternoon - when he's on one of the public computers at the library, looking at prices on National Rail - when he thinks about going home. Buying a train ticket to Bradford, showing up at his mum and dad's. 

Maybe they're not angry anymore. 

Maybe they don't think he's sick, anymore. Maybe he'd-

He closes out of the tab, stabbing at the mouse violently, and shuts the computer down, shrugs his backpack over his shoulder and walks out. 

The problem is - he's out of practice. Before Simon, he would've seen five hundred quid as a fucking fortune. He knew the drill, once - don't buy food if you don't have to, sell what you don't need so you travel light, don't mind the cold or the dark or the smell, once showering gets hard. Do what you have to do, to get through one more day.

The rules have changed. Or maybe just Zayn has. He spends six hours in an Au Bon Pain, spends four quid on tea and a croissant, watches people, knee jiggling furiously under the table. Night's coming and he doesn't know where to go, and if he were smart he would've set up shop at a bar, would've picked someone up by now, someone drunk with a bit of cash. 

He sits, instead. He has this strange idea that someone's just going to come up to him, save him. Take him home. It's not going to happen but it's tempting enough to paralyze him, and he just - keeps fucking sitting. 

They kick him out at ten, a waiter giving him a pointed glance as he mops the floor next to Zayn's table. 

And then there he is. It's dark out, the streets nearly empty, since it's just a Tuesday. Zayn zips his coat all the way up to his neck, starts walking. His stomach's aching already, empty. He's gotten spoiled.

Christ, he misses Harry. Another way he's gotten spoiled. He's used to the warmth, the easy affection. He's used to having somewhere to go. 

He swipes at his eyes hastily, digs out a fag and lights it as he walks. 

He ends up somewhere familiar, eventually. A bar.  _The_  bar, the one where Simon found him - a good forty-five minute walk. This part of town's gotten no better in the past five years, and Zayn hunches into himself, tries to walk fast. It'd be fucking  _shit_  to get mugged, get his cash all taken from him in one fell swoop. 

The bar is dark, the air thick with smoke and the scent of spilled liquor. 

Zayn orders a drink - rail vodka-soda, and he gulps it hastily, scans the room. 

Alright. Alright. He tries to remember the signs, the things he looked for, before clients started getting delivered easily to his door. Before he got lazy. A man catches his eye, leaning against the bartop, and Zayn stares back. He must do something wrong, though, because the man drops his gaze, turns back to his friend. 

Zayn draws in a fast breath, tips an ice cube into his mouth and crunches down. Focus, Zayn. 

"Another?" the bartender says, and Zayn shakes his head. 

"Just a water, please," he says. 

Someone comes up behind him, on his left. Zayn tenses up, and then exhales, tries to relax. 

It's a man, older - salt and pepper hair, his face shadowy and hard to see in the dim glow of the bar. 

"Fancy a drink?" he asks Zayn, his voice low. London accent, but not posh. 

Zayn tries to smile, tries to be easy. His heart's beating rabbit-fast. 

"Yeah, thanks," he says. "Vodka-soda." 

"Of course," the man says, and he puts in his order when the bartender comes back with Zayn's water. A vodka-soda, and a whiskey neat. The bartender gives Zayn a look, slow and disdainful. 

"What brings you here on a Thursday night?" the man asks, softly. 

Zayn falters. "Uhh. Had the night off. Figured I'd - I'd get a drink." 

"Let your hair down, eh?" The man huffs a laugh. "What's your name?" 

"Sam," Zayn says smoothly. It's the name he always said, back when he did this. Before Simon. 

"Sam," the man murmurs. "I'm Michael." 

"Good to meet you." 

Their drinks come, and Zayn sips his, nervously. 

"I'm knackered," he says, uncomfortably, after a long burning gulp of vodka. Christ, that's stronger than the first one. Zayn'll have to be careful. "Fancy, er, getting out of here?" 

Michael's eyes flicker, intrigued.

For a moment Zayn thinks -  _I'm not a rentboy, I'm just pulling someone, I'm just getting laid,_ and the thought gives him a strange thrill, even though he's less than attracted to Michael. 

And then Michael says, "How much would that cost me?" and Zayn snaps back down to earth. He looks like exactly what he is. He can't fool anyone.

He smiles around his straw, sets his shoulders. "Depends on what you'd like." 

"A night," Michael says, sipping his scotch. "Your mouth." 

Zayn swallows. With Simon, that'd set someone back three thousand pounds or more.

Not here, though, in this dingy dim place, hunting grounds for a million boys just like Zayn, desperate and on the prowl. 

Five years ago, Zayn would sell his mouth for - 

Well. Not much.

"Hundred quid," Zayn says, trying to seem sure of himself. 

Michael laughs softly. "Boy by the door quoted me fifty. What makes you so special?" 

"You've never had a mouth like mine," Zayn says boldly. God, he's fucking tired. He misses his bed, his cozy pillow-top mattress, the scent of the candle Harry gave him for Christmas that sits next to his bed, sweet and spicy. 

"Oh really," Michael says, looking more amused than angry. 

"Yeah," Zayn says, low, licking his lips. "Trust me. I'm worth it." 

The words bring a lump to his throat. He swallows it down with a mouthful of vodka and ice.

"Seventy," Michael says, coolly. He tips his scotch back and finishes it. 

"Eighty," Zayn says, and Michael gives him a small, regretful smile, slides off the stool. 

"Wait," Zayn says, grabbing his arm. "Wait." 

Michael looks at Zayn's hand, then up at him. 

"Seventy," Zayn says, trying not to do the math, of how much cheaper he goes for here than he does with Simon.  

Michael raises an eyebrow. "Come around, have you?" 

Zayn tries to smile. "Seventy," he repeats. "For the night." 

Michael nods Zayn towards the door, and Zayn scrambles to grab his backpack.

Alright, then. He's still fucking got it. Zayn's eyes burn fiercely for a second, until he breathes in deep and exhales slow. 

Michael holds open the door for him, and Zayn ducks outside into the chill black night, steeling himself.  Do what you have to do, to get through one more day. That's the rule. 

**HARRY**

Ben's frustratingly obtuse for someone who's supposed to be so bloody smart. Rich people are supposed to be smart. And yet.

"He's  _missing_ ," Harry says, for the third time, as Ben makes them both tea in his kitchen past midnight on a Friday night. "His flat is empty and locked and he's not answering his phone-"  

"So he's out of town," Ben says. "Sure Simon didn't send him a trip? He's done it before."

Harry wrinkles his nose. Simon's sent Zayn on trips? 

"You're overreacting," Ben says gently, rubbing Harry's shoulder. "He's fine, I'm sure of it. He's probably in Paris holed up in a hotel room with some moony-eyed bloke eating room service." 

"He would tell me if he were leaving town," Harry says, voice wobbly. "He always tells me." 

"Harry-" 

"And why wouldn't he be answering his phone?" 

"Maybe he lost it." 

"He'd  _tell me_  if he left town," Harry says, low. "He knows that I- I get worried." 

Ben's face softens. 

"God, you're sweet," he says. 

"Ben, stop," Harry says, flushing. "I'm trying to be serious." 

"Oh, I know you are," Ben laughs, sliding his arms around Harry's back. "You're so adorable, though. Feel like we're on a treasure hunt." 

Harry looks away as Ben starts to kiss his neck. 

"He wouldn't go anywhere without telling me," he says quietly. "Unless someone's hurt him." 

"Don't be paranoid." 

"I've called Simon twice and gotten no answer." 

"Do you want me to call?" 

"No," Harry says, quickly. "No." 

Ben pulls away, looks at him with his eyes narrowed. "No?" 

"He's just- you can't. Just don't, don't talk to Simon about Zayn. It's not allowed." 

Ben laughs softly. "Not allowed? So I'm not  _allowed_  to do something? Where's the rulebook?" 

"Just don't, Ben, okay?" Harry says, voice rising. "It makes Simon mad." 

"Simon's a businessman," Ben says, patting Harry's cheek. "He's not Zayn's father. Maybe I should call, I hate to see you this worried-" 

"Don't!" Harry snaps, yanking out of Ben's arms. "You can't! He'll - he'll hurt Zayn. He's done it before." 

Ben stops, his Iphone in hand, and sets it down. 

"How do you mean," he says, low. 

Harry doesn't know, exactly. All he knows is that Zayn came home with bruises on his face and throat after Ben called Simon to tell him Zayn had shown up at his house unexpectedly. All he knows is the way Zayn's voice shook when he said  _he'll put me out on the fucking street, okay? And I can't go back there_.

"Harry, this is silly," Ben says, after a long minute where Harry doesn't answer his question. "I just saw Zayn the other night at an event, and Simon was there too. We all chatted. It was fine." 

Harry looks up at him. "What night?" 

"Umm, Wednesday, maybe?" Ben says, thoughtfully. "Lemme check my calendar." 

He scrolls through his phone. "Yeah, Wednesday. This dinner at the Royale." 

"Wednesday," Harry murmurs to himself. "I haven't seen Zayn since then. Or heard from him." 

"Well, he looked perfectly happy on Wednesday," Ben says. "We all had a nice chat." 

"Who all?"

"Zayn and Simon, Harry." Ben laughs. 

"You talked to Zayn in front of Simon?" Harry says, his mind racing. He sticks his fingernail into his mouth to gnaw at. 

Ben tugs his arm down so Harry can't reach his nails. 

"Yes, love," he says. "We said hello, I complimented Simon on the  _fine_  quality of his product-" he smirks. "It was all fine. Everyone's amicable, Harry, it's not like we broke up, I just stopped seeing him." 

Harry doesn't look at him. 

"When's the last time you fucked him, though?" he asks, swallowing, taking a step back. 

Ben goes still.

"What?"

"When's the last time you had sex with Zayn?" Harry asks again, curling his hand into a fist so he won't bite his nails. 

"That's not - you're. That's not relevant." 

"How's that not- just tell me, Ben, god, I'm not mad, I don't care who you shag, I just-" 

"Fine," Ben says, putting his hands out. "Over Christmas. Zayn slept over one night." 

"Does Simon know?" 

"Simon doesn't know," Ben says, dismissively. "Course he doesn't. Zayn told me not to tell him." 

Harry looks at him, eyes wide. 

"Why d'you think he bloody told you not to tell him?" he asks, shakily.

Ben's eyebrows furrow. "Harry…" 

"I just - I think. I dunno. It's not like Zayn to just disappear." 

Ben's face goes soft again, and he slides his hand onto Harry's back, strokes up and down. 

"Sweetheart," he says. "There's a lot you don't know about Zayn." 

Harry grits his teeth. What the hell would Ben know that Harry doesn't? All they've done is fuck. 

"What do you mean?" he says, trying not to look too frustrated. 

Ben sighs. "Zayn's- Zayn's got some, y'know. Some difficult stuff. That's happened to him." 

"What's that mean?" 

"Christ. Alright, Haz. Zayn doesn't talk to his family, you know that." 

"Yeah?" 

Ben leans back against the counter, draws Harry in closer, both hands on his back. 

"Well," he says. "They don't talk because Zayn had an affair with his father's best friend. When he was fourteen." 

Harry goes still. 

"What does that mean?" he says, as Ben keeps rubbing his back. He resists the urge to get Ben's hands off him. "An affair, what does that mean exactly?" 

"Zayn had a- a relationship, I'll say. With this man. His dad's friend. Very hush-hush. Pretty bloody sick shit, honestly. Used to stay with the friend when his parents went out of town. Watch Zayn on weekends, only mummy and daddy didn't know he was slipping it to Zayn at the same time." 

Ben laughs, shaking his head. 

"Jesus," Harry says, thickly. He steps back, away, and Ben drops his hands to his sides. 

"Yeah," he says. "Think a sister found out - Zayn's got two, don't know if you knew that - and his parents went fucking mental. Kicked him out. He lived with an aunt for a while, and then came to London when he was seventeen, started to work with Simon." 

There's a gap there, between coming to London and working with Simon -  _the street_ , Zayn had said, with that desperate look on his face - but Harry doesn't say anything about it.

"Jesus," he says again. His chest hurts. 

"What I'm saying, sweetheart, is that Zayn doesn't quite trust people the same way you and I do. D'you know what I mean? Wouldn't surprise me if he took off without telling you." 

"He trusts me," Harry says, staring past Ben's shoulder. "He trusts me." 

"I'm sure he trusts you, darling, it's just not- he's not the type to make friends and keep them." 

Harry sniffs in hard, takes another step back. 

"Okay," he says. "Okay. I have to go." 

"Harry, love- I didn't mean to upset you."

Harry smiles, forced and tight. "I'm fine. I just- I have to go, Ben."

"Alright," Ben says, with a sigh. "Well, don't do anything stupid."

\---

He does do something stupid, despite Ben's warning. He does, because he needs to find Zayn. That's all that matters.

Four days later, he's in Simon's house, alone, in a see-through shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, with Nick waiting in his car outside in case Harry needs to leave fast, and three of Elise's sleeping pills tucked in the back pocket of his skin-tight jeans.

Something stupid, indeed.  _Christ_. 

Simon pours them both a drink - scotch, in small glass tumblers- and then sips his while he looks Harry over, appraisingly. Harry smiles, tries to look available. He feels nervous. He's sweating. 

"This is new," Simon says, looking amused. 

Harry smiles at him, turns his back on Simon to add an ice cube to his scotch. His fingers slip, and it lands in his glass with a splash. "Is it?" 

"Yeah," Simon breathes out, coming up behind him, putting his arms around Harry's waist. "Never bothered with me before." 

"You were always busy," Harry says, making his voice pout. "You didn't have time for me." 

"Mm," Simon hums against his ear. 

"Always with Zayn," Harry says, lightly, rubbing his arse back against Simon's crotch to distract him while he speaks, hoping he'll let something slip. "Where is Zayn, anyway?" 

"Ahh, Mr. Malik," Simon says, absently. His voice is rough. "He's on a trip. With a client." 

"Jealous," Harry says, pouting again. "I never get to go on trips." 

"That what you want?" Simon murmurs. "That could be arranged. You're being so sweet for me." 

"Where are they?" Harry asks breathily, grinding his arse back with a bit more intent. "Paris? I'd love to go to Paris. I'd be  _really_  sweet if I got to go to Paris." 

"Not Paris," Simon says with a chuckle. "And of  _course_  you'd like to go there." 

"It's so romantic," Harry murmurs. "It makes me hot. Always wanted to get fucked in Paris." 

Simon grabs his hip tightly. 

"Yeah?" he groans out, thrusting his hips up against Harry's backside. Oh, now they're getting somewhere.

"Yeah," Harry sighs back. "I- I kinda wanna get fucked  _now_." 

There's a moment of quiet, and then Simon laughs low against his neck.

"That can definitely be arranged, darling." 

"Good." Harry's heart is pounding, but he feels strangely calm, in control. Simon's dick is hard against his arse and it feels like power. 

"Can I-" Harry says, ducking his head like he's shy, and Simon pulls him up by the chin, croons to him, turns Harry around til they're facing each other. 

"Can you what, beautiful." 

"Can I, like," Harry says, biting his lip. "Can I ride you?" 

Simon's eyes are dark. He laughs again. "You'd like that, eh?" 

Harry nods, biting his lip again shyly. "In- in your chair, please. Always wanted that." 

"Christ," Simon mutters. "Aren't you fantastic."

"And Zayn always gets it instead of me," Harry says, running his hand down Simon's chest. He brushes his fingers against the bulge of Simon's prick in his trousers, hot and hard under his hand. "When'll Zayn be back? Can I- can I come over, like, til then?" 

Simon groans, eyelids fluttering. 

"Yeah," he says, not answering the first question. "Yeah, that's what you want, huh?" 

"Yeah, I want it," Harry sighs out, shaping his hand around Simon's dick. 

"You're less sweet than I thought," Simon says, low, and Harry tries not to tense up. No. He wants to be  _more_ sweet. He wants to be sugar-sweet, he wants Simon to want him, he wants to be trusted in the way children are trusted because they're too stupid to do any damage. 

"I'm sweet," he says, trying to sound petulant, like a little kid being told they're not a big boy yet. "I am." 

"Oh, I'm sure you are," Simon murmurs, and Harry tilts his head, leans in to suck a gentle bite against Simon's neck. He smells like aftershave and alcohol, strong in Harry's nose, making him woozy. "But you're also quite a slut, aren't you?" 

Harry forces out a giggle. "Shh. Don't tell anyone." 

Simon laughs too, runs his heavy hand up into Harry's hair. 

"Can you get condoms?" Harry says, and then giggles again. "A condom. I mean. God, I  _am_  a slut." 

"Mm, who wouldn't want two rounds in that gorgeous arse," Simon says, huffing out a laugh. "I'll be right back, darling." 

"Thank you," Harry sighs out, and Simon adjusts himself in his trousers before he walks out of the room. 

Harry fumbles in his back pocket, takes out the pills. His heart's really pounding now, loud in his ears in the silent room, and his hands are trembling so hard he's scared he won't be able to get the powder out. 

He twists apart the capsule, lets the powder fall into Simon's glass of scotch. After two more pills emptied into the glass, there's a cloudy white film over the amber liquid. Harry sticks his finger in to stir it, pulse racing, until it looks mostly dissolved, some of it clumped at the bottom but nothing visible on the top. 

He's barely wiped his fingers on his jeans when Simon comes back in, two condom packets in one hand, a bottle of lube in the other. Harry smiles at him. 

"What a sweet face," Simon says, taking it in his hands, and Harry resists the urge to pull away. Simon's palms are clammy. "A sweet face and a wicked mind." 

Harry's heart jumps. "You think I'm wicked?" he says, coyly. He licks his lips.

"Something's behind those eyes," Simon says vaguely, and then, "C'mere." 

He pulls Harry into a kiss and Harry goes, opens his mouth easily, makes it sluttish and wet right away. Simon likes it. Simon groans for it, and Harry wants to walk him backwards into the living room but he doesn't want to leave the scotch behind. 

Harry pulls back after a minute, breathing hard. 

"God," he says, low. "I need- I need-" 

"I know what you need," Simon says softly. "C'mon, love."

"Wait," Harry says, when Simon starts to turn away. "Wait. Sorry. Just." He laughs, self-consciously, mind racing. "I- can we, um, can we finish our drinks? I'm so- maybe that'd make me feel less, uh, like a slag." 

He laughs again, covers his face. The blush is real, brought on by fear, so he doesn't have to fake that. 

"Like, at least if I'm a little drunk that could be an excuse why I, you know…" He lets his voice sink low, breathy. "Why I want cock so bad." 

Simon's eyebrow raises, and then he smiles, like a shark, and Harry knows he's taken the bait. 

"Please?" Harry says, cocking his head. 

"Of course, darling," Simon says, handing Harry his scotch, laughing to himself. He picks up his own glass and Harry eyes the powder still lurking at the bottom. 

"Bottoms up," he says, sweetly. 

"What should we toast to?" Simon says, amusedly. "To being a slut?" 

Harry giggles again, light and stupid. "And not being ashamed of it." 

"Good lad," Simon says hungrily, and he tips his glass up to his mouth. 

When he sets it down it's drained. So is Harry's. The scotch is spreading warm through his chest, and he has to hold his hands steady, keep a giddy grin off his face. 

Now he just has to wait. 

\---

It takes half an hour, ten minutes of those spent riding Simon's dick, before the pills finally kick in. 

Harry stares down at Simon's slack sleeping face, eases himself off Simon's prick, wincing, grabbing his pants off the ground and slipping into them. 

He looks around the silent house, his heart beating audibly, then yanks out his phone. 

 _all good?_ Nick's texted. 

 _yea hes out,_ Harry sends back, and keeps his phone in his hand as he creeps down the hall and into Simon's study. 

It takes him ten minutes of digging around Simon's massive wooden desk before he finds it. A drawer of files, each with a name, and Harry flips through until he finds  _Malik, Zayn_.

Harry yanks the file out, sets it on the desk, digs inside.

The very first thing he sees is a glossy photo of Zayn, clipped to a piece of paper, and he's - 

Christ. He's so young. Harry stares at it, his heart caught in his throat. Zayn's a child, in the photo. Same dark eyes, dark hair, but - his cheeks are soft and round and his jaw is less defined and his hair's all flattened down on top of his head, shiny with gel. He has a gaudy fake diamond in one ear and he's wearing a hoodie. He's pouting. Harry draws in a wobbly breath. 

The piece of paper has his name, his age at that time - eighteen - his height, his weight, his ethnicity. 

At the bottom, scribbled in pen, is a note.  _Redwood Tavern E. London 11/14/2007_

Harry files that away in his head, and then slides the page aside, keeps looking. 

There are more photos. The same kind of photos Harry took when he first started working with Simon- headshots, and dick pictures, and photos of his chest and stomach and arse. Zayn's body is young and skinny and his eyes look distant and blank in every picture where his face is showing. Harry flips through the photos quickly, startles when he feels a crinkling at the bottom of the file and pulls out a clear plastic bag. 

His breath catches when he sees what's inside.  

Zayn's phone. His flat key. His car keys. His credit cards.

Shit. Shit. Harry lets out a slow breath. Yeah  _right_ Zayn's on a fucking holiday. 

There's a small piece of paper at the bottom of the plastic bag, and Harry digs it out. It's a withdrawal slip from their bank, from Harry's bank. £4508.45, transferred from Account #1456 to Account #1348. Harry stares at it, and then puts it back into the bag. 

He rifles through the rest of the papers in Zayn's file - employment records, client contacts, more updated photos, of Zayn more like Harry knows him, his jaw sharp and his hair quiffed up, eyes gleaming.

Nothing of use. Fucking nothing. Harry's heart is pounding, constantly aware of Simon passed out in the other room, and he quickly, silently takes photos of the bank statement, Zayn's info sheet , the hastily-scribbled pencil of  _Redwood Tavern_. He snaps photos on his phone of everything he can find, and then puts the phone in his pocket, carefully replaces everything in the file, and slips it back into the drawer. 

Simon's still asleep when Harry tiptoes back into the room. 

He had a plan for this, too, of course. Took him a while to think of it. 

He finds a notepad in one of Simon's kitchen drawers, writes a note.

_Simon -_

_You must be knackered. Hope I didn't put you to sleep. I had fun tonight :) Can I come over again? Don't forget about sending me to Paris…_

_Xx, Harry_  

He sets the note gingerly on Simon's gently-rising chest. Simon doesn't move, his face slack, mouth open.

Harry stares at his handiwork, runs a trembling hand through his hair, and lets himself out. 

\---

"So, you think something's happened to him?" Nick says quietly, over a restorative cup of tea ten minutes later, tucked away in a McDonald's near Nick's flat. Harry's slowly eating chips, scrolling through the photos on his phone, trying to think. 

"Something," Harry says, biting his lip. "I just - I dunno. Sacked, maybe. I just know he's not on fucking holiday." 

"He'd tell you, wouldn't he?" Nick asks, stealing a chip, licking grease off his fingers. 

"He would, but - I - I dunno." Harry rubs his tired eyes with one hand. "I think he would. He doesn't have his phone, though, so maybe, like. Maybe he can't reach me." 

Nick watches him anxiously. 

"I just- I just hate this," Harry mumbles out. "I just want to find him. I- I just keep, like, thinking about. Something bad happening-" 

"I'm sure he's fine," Nick says softly, low. "I'm sure. You can't think like that til you - you sort it all out a bit more." 

Harry nods slowly. 

"I know, I just-" he says. "I dunno. I keep trying to think of where he's gone, and I know it's not, I know it's probably not- but I can't stop. I just want him to be okay." 

"I know," Nick murmurs, reaching across the table for Harry's hand. "Listen, I don't know him, but he seems clever. I'm sure he's alright." 

Harry thinks about that. Is Zayn clever? Of course Zayn's clever. But Harry's always thought Zayn was soft, too, tender, neutered almost. Zayn in his posh flat with his soft skin and perfect haircut and luxurious clothes. 

Harry bites his lip. 

"He's clever but he doesn't, like," he says, slowly, feeling a little traitorous. "He doesn't know how to do other stuff." 

"Other stuff…" Nick says, raising an eyebrow, sipping his tea. 

"Like, other than, you know. What I do. It's all he's ever done." 

"So you think he might still be, like - working?" Nick asks. 

Harry nods, hesitantly. He can't picture Zayn working at a fucking McDonald's, that's for bloody sure.

"Finding a rentboy somewhere in London, that should be a piece of fucking cake," Nick mutters. 

"And he could've left London." 

"Oh, great, let's extend the search parameters to all of England." 

"And he also might be dead," Harry adds, voice wobbling. 

Nick looks up, dark-eyed. "Haz, don't think like that." 

Harry nods, trying to smile. He wipes his hand over his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, I know." 

"Let's just - stay positive," Nick says. He checks his watch. "Good fucking Christ, I have work in six hours. The things I do for you, Styles." 

He runs a hand through his hair, starts clearing up Harry's chip packet and empty cup of tea. 

"Just, we'll figure it out tomorrow," he says. "Think about it, sleep on it, yeah?" 

Harry nods, trying not to let out the useless sob that's trapped in his chest. 

"Yeah," he chokes out. "Thanks."

Nick tosses their trash away, comes back and kisses the side of Harry's head, fiercely. 

"It'll be alright," he says. "Now come on, I've got to be on radio in like two minutes. Want to sleep at mine?" 

"Yes, please," Harry mumbles, and he lets Nick put an arm around him as they walk back to the car. 

\----

Harry stays awake long after Nick's gone to asleep, sprawled on the other side of the bed with Pig curled up next to him. 

He lies on his belly, flicks through the pictures on his phone. The photos of Zayn, the info form, the hand-written note in pencil -  _Redwood Tavern, E. London, 11/14/2007_. What the hell could that mean? 2007 is years ago, and it's not- 

Belatedly, Harry realizes he should have fucking found his own file, looked to see if there was something comparable, figured it out from there. He swears softly, and Nick stirs in his sleep, rolling onto his belly. Harry watches him for a moment, strokes his hand down Nick's soft back, and turns back to his phone. 

He opens his last texts with Zayn, from Tuesday, the day before he went missing. 

 _Working tonight??_ Harry sent him, along with a long string of x's and o's. 

_Not tonight. tomorrow though. How about you x_

Harry remembers feeling victorious that Zayn had even texted him back. Zayn's been - distant, lately, quieter than normal. Which is saying something. 

_Yess tonight and tomorrow :/ we should get brekkie this weekend, i miss you xxxxx_

Zayn hadn't responded for hours, and then sent only -  _Yea, sounds good._

That's it. Harry stares at it until his eyes blur. 

He gets to sleep only a half hour before Nick's alarm goes off, and he wakes up when Nick does, lies there bleary-eyed as Nick turns his shower on, light filtering out from the en-suite. 

Nick gets dressed and out the door in fifteen minutes flat, knocking shit over in his haste and cursing to himself, and then Harry's alone. 

He lies there on his back in Nick's soft, warm bed, stares up at the ceiling. His eyes hurt, and he shuts them, falls deep into sleep without meaning to. 

He dreams of Zayn. He dreams of Simon's house, his big posh house, endless corridors and dark rooms, and he dreams of trying a key in the lock of one room, his hands shaking, knowing Simon's after him. 

The door opens, finally, and Harry gropes for a light switch but there isn't one, and as his eyes adjust he sees Zayn. 

Naked, bloody. Stomach torn apart, guts on the floor - and his face pristine and perfect, eyes open and blank like a doll's, lashes long with mascara. 

And then footsteps pound down the hall and before Harry can blink he's being grabbed, too, and it's over, it's all over-

He wakes up with a start, his heart pounding, reaches over blindly and gropes for the radio, flicks it on. 

Nick's voice filters out, warm and chatty, saying something about Beyoncé. Harry relaxes all at once, sinking back into bed, putting a hand over his face and exhaling slowly. 

Fucking hell. 

"Where are you," he whispers. "Where the fuck are you, Zayn?" 

Pig whines, and Harry sighs, rolls out of bed to let her out for a wee.

 ---

"Okay, so, let me see the photos again?" Nick asks around a mouthful of chicken korma. He brought home Indian takeaway for lunch after his production meeting. Harry's sitting at the table in a pair of Nick's pants and a giant jumper, brushing bits of samosa off his front. 

He hands over the phone, and Nick flicks through all of them. 

"What's with this Redwood Tavern thing?" he asks, licking sauce off his fingers and peering at the screen. "That's some dive bar in East London, int it? Annie used to DJ there, like,  _way_  back in the 90s. I heard it's all like, suspiciously sticky floors and rentboys now-" 

He stops, looks up at Harry with his eyes wide. 

"Rentboys?" Harry asks, low.

Nick swallows. "She said they gave up on DJ nights because the - the other business was way more lucrative. No one wanted to dance, they just wanted to fuck." 

"But, 2007, though?" Harry asks, chewing his thumbnail, taking the phone back from Nick and staring at the photo. 

"You said this was on, like, a sheet with all his information, yeah?" 

"Yeah." 

"Maybe- maybe it's where and when he got discovered," Nick says. "Or, you know. Not discovered. Whatever. Picked up." 

"2007, that's - he- he said he'd been doing this for a while," Harry says, shakily. "And he- he turned twenty-four in January, and - and he was eighteen, in that photo-" 

"Adds up," Nick says softly. 

"Yeah," Harry says, setting the phone down. "But even if that's - true. It doesn't mean he'd be there now." 

"You said he didn't really know how to do other things," Nick says, low. "What if he didn't know where else to go?" 

As soon as he says it, Harry feels a click of recognition in his stomach. Fucking hell, of  _course_. If Zayn didn't have a phone or a flat or a car, he'd go back to where it started, where he knows he can find work. 

"You said it's a dive?" Harry asks, wobbly. Fuck, he hopes Zayn's alright.  

"God, yeah, it's disgusting," Nick says obliviously, and then, wincing, "I mean - it's. It's fine. I'm sure he's fine." 

"Yeah," Harry gulps out. "Can we go there? Can you take me there?" 

Nick chews his lip. 

"Please, Nick," Harry says, wiping his hand over his eyes. "Please." 

"Yeah," Nick says, relenting. "Course we can." 

"Tonight?" 

Nick huffs out a laugh, scrubs both hands over his face. 

"Yeah," he says, muffled into his palms. "Yeah, sure. Let's go tonight. Why not? It's not like I've got a job that requires me to wake up early and entertain the nation. No, let's go look for a rentboy in some creepy bar in East London. Good idea, Harry." 

Harry lets him run out of steam - sometimes he just needs to get it out of his system - and leans across the table to kiss his cheek. 

"Thank you," he whispers. Nick smiles weakly at him, squeezes his hand. 

 ---

It's a fucking dive. They show up at half nine, parking a half block away. Nick wanted to take a cab, but Harry reminded him that cabs rarely passed through this part of town, anyway, and what if they needed to get away quickly? Apparently the thought of being stuck in East London convinced Nick to risk his Mercedes. 

 "I cannot believe Annie used to play here," Nick whispers into Harry's ear, once they're inside. 

Harry doesn't respond. He's looking around, his heart in his throat. 

"Oh- uh, excuse me, sorry- and you're gone, well, that's rude," Nick mutters, as someone shoves past him. He's visibly uncomfortable, his posture stiff. "Harry, I don't like this place." 

"Stop being such a fucking baby," Harry says, tugging at his arm. 

"Aren't you pretty," some bloke murmurs to Harry, curling calloused fingers around his forearm, and Harry smiles politely and extracts himself. 

"Already occupied, sorry," he says, just as Nick's hand slides possessively around his waist.

The man eyes Nick, and walks off. 

"Oh my god," Nick breathes into Harry's ear. "I think I'm a lad." 

"Your dick didn't tip you off?" Harry murmurs back, huffing a laugh, and Nick pinches the soft skin on his hip and drags him to the bar. 

"Fancy a drink?" Nick says, fumbling for his wallet. 

Harry shakes his head, and pulls the bartender over. 

"Sir?" he asks. The bartender's young, in his twenties maybe, dark hair and a hard face. Harry smiles as sweetly as he can. "I was just wondering if you'd maybe seen this person." 

"We get a lot of people in here," the bartender says, eyes flicking up to Nick. 

"I have a photo," Harry says, and he turns his phone around, shows the bartender a picture of Zayn. It was taken last month, in Zayn's flat, when they were high and Harry absolutely  _needed_  to get a photo of Zayn's eyelashes, his mouth. Zayn laughed, flushed, but he gave in eventually. 

 He's not smiling, but it's close-up and not blurry and it looks like him. 

The bartender glances at it for a minute. 

"Wouldn't really know if I'd seen him," he says. "You know." 

Harry stares at him, helplessly, until Nick coughs, and slides a twenty pound note onto the bartop. Harry looks at him, and Nick rolls his eyes.

The bartender slips it into his pocket. 

"Yeah, I know him," he says. "Sam, I think. Does business here." 

"Have you seen him tonight?" Harry asks, swallowing. 

"Not tonight. Doesn't come in til after ten, usually." 

Harry nods, swallowing. 

"Was he here last night?" he asks. 

"Yeah." The bartender glances down either end of the bar. 

"Did he - did he leave with someone?" 

The bartender nods. 

Harry exhales softly. 

"Thanks," he says. 

"And we'll have two vodka-crans," Nick adds. 

"Got it," the bartender says, moving away. 

"I don't want a drink," Harry says, low. 

"We're not sitting here for another hour without something. Looks suspicious, doesn't it?" 

Harry considers it. "Yeah, s'pose so." 

"I've watched CSI, I know how to be inconspicuous." Nick looks smug. "Plus, I'm thirsty." 

Harry huffs out a laugh despite himself. "You're such an idiot." 

"An idiot who's buying your drinks," Nick says, smacking a kiss on Harry's cheek and dropping a tenner on the bartop. He hands Harry his drink, and Harry takes a sip, turns around on the stool to watch the bar. 

"Think he'll show?" Nick asks, leaning back and gulping half his drink in one go.

"Careful, you're driving," Harry says, not looking at Nick. 

Nick sighs. "Alright, mum." 

They sit there for another hour and a half, until Harry's arse hurts, he's rebuffed half a dozen men looking to buy him a drink, and Nick's phone is almost out of battery. He steadfastly refuses to stop playing Fruit Ninja, though, because he's an idiot. 

Harry looks up from Nick's phone screen, startles and grabs Nick's arm, because that's - that's Zayn, or someone who looks exactly like him. He has a hood over his head and a backpack over his shoulders. He slides the hood off as he walks into the bar, and Harry sees his face.

"Nick," Harry whispers, suddenly breathless. He slides off the stool. "Nick-" 

Nick looks up, slipping his phone into his pocket, as Harry takes off through the crowd. 

"Harry," Nick calls. "Wait!" 

Harry doesn't listen to him. 

"Zayn!" he calls. His voice is shaky. "Zayn!" 

He  _sees_  Zayn turn, he sees a flash of his face, familiar dark eyes catching Harry's across the room, and then - Zayn turns away from him.

Harry's breath catches in his throat, shocked. 

"Zayn!" he yells again, as Zayn slips away, towards the side of the bar. "Wait!" 

Zayn wrenches open a back door by the toilets, and Harry catches it just as it slams closed. "Wait, Zayn-"

He catches up with Zayn outside, in the alley.  

"Don't," Zayn gasps, stopping suddenly, shoving Harry's hands off. He's shaking. Harry is too. "Don't. Why the fuck are you here? Did- did Simon tell you, like- I haven't done anything, I haven't fucked with any clients or done -  _anything_ -" 

"Zayn, just-" 

"I haven't done anything," Zayn says, shakily. He's unshaven, skinnier than before, cheekbones sticking out in sharp relief. But he's  _Zayn_ , and he's alive. Harry stares at him greedily, his heart clenching. "You shouldn't be here." 

"Simon didn't tell me to come here," Harry says, grabbing at Zayn's arm. Fuck, his skin is freezing. "I swear." 

"I can't fucking be  _near_  you, Harry," Zayn moans, tugging away. 

Harry's eyes go hot, just like that. 

"Wait," he gulps out, shakily. "Wait, please." 

"Harry-" 

"Just wait," Harry says, voice watery. "Simon doesn't know I'm here. I promise. He's got no- he doesn't know." 

"He'll find out," Zayn says, convinced. He won't look Harry in the eyes. 

"He won't." 

The door slams open, and Nick piles outside, breathing hard, a high flush on his cheeks.

"Don't bloody run off like that, Haz!" he says. "You scared me!" 

Zayn looks between the two of them, and takes a step backwards. 

"Listen, you can't - you can't see me, okay?" he says. "Sorry, Haz. I'm sorry." 

"Just  _wait_ ," Harry chokes out. "Listen. You don't even - you don't even know how- how worried I've been, Zayn, that's not  _fair_ -" 

He exhales roughly to stave off a sob.

"Can't just run away again," he mumbles out. 

"He's been fucking terrified," Nick adds, voice cautious. "He really has." 

Zayn puts his hood up, tugs his backpack up his shoulders. 

"I'm sorry," he says, voice low. "But I can't, Haz. Okay? Just- you can't, you can't come looking for me." 

"Why not," Harry chokes out. "Please." 

Zayn rubs a hand over his jaw, through the short hair growing in. 

"I got sacked," he says, shortly, giving a nervous glance up at Nick, who's hovering awkwardly somewhere behind Harry.

"Yeah, Zayn, I guessed you weren't on fucking holiday," Harry says, sniffing in hard.

"And I can't-" Zayn starts, shaking his head. "If I - if he found out you were here, he'd-" 

"What? He'd hit you?" Harry asks, voice rising. "He'd hurt you?" 

"He'd hurt  _you_ ," Zayn chokes out, and he turns around, puts his back to Harry. Harry watches his shoulders heave. 

"What?" he says, hearing how stupid and wobbly his voice sounds. He feels numb. "What?" 

"He'll hurt you," Zayn mutters out, not facing him. "If I talk to you. Or- or Ben. He'll - really bad, Harry, he'll hurt you really bad." 

Harry's breathing too fast. From behind him, Nick mutters, "Bloody hell." _  
_

Zayn turns around, a strained smile on his face.

"I'm okay," he says, putting his hand on Harry's neck. "I promise, babe. I'm fine. You've just got to go home and pretend this didn't happen, okay? Because I need you not- not to be hurt. I need that. Please, Harry." 

He slips his hand off, and Harry grabs it. 

"I'm not bloody leaving," he says, low in his throat. "I'm not - no." 

"Harry-" 

Harry doesn't let go, as Zayn tries to pull away. 

"You're not fucking leaving," he says, loudly. "I'm not- leaving you here." 

Zayn laughs, brokenly. "And where the fuck am I gonna go, babe?" he asks. "If Simon finds out you did this-" 

"He's not going to find out," Harry says stubbornly. "Because you'll stay with Nick." 

Behind him, Nick makes a strangled sound. 

Zayn shakes his head, stepping backwards. 

"You'll stay with Nick," Harry says, as his mind works, a plan taking shape. "Until Simon's not suspicious anymore, and- and I'll get my things together, get some cash. And then we'll go." 

Zayn's eyes open wide. 

"Go?" Nick breathes out, sounding like he's been punched in the stomach, but Harry can worry about him later. 

"Go?" Zayn repeats. "Where?"

"Wherever," Harry says, staring at him. "North. Away from London." 

"You're mental," Zayn says shakily. 

"No I'm  _not_." Harry grits his teeth. "Think about it." 

"He'll find us." 

"Not if we're careful." 

"He knows about your family, Haz," Zayn says, sniffling. "He knows about your sister."

Harry falters, breath catching.

"Then I'll quit," he says. "Make it legit, so he won't follow me." 

Zayn huffs a sour laugh, shakes his head. "Harry-" 

"I'm not leaving you in this fucking place," Harry snaps. "I'm not." 

He turns back to Nick, who goes wide-eyed under the force of Harry's glare.

"You'd let him stay, wouldn't you?" he asks. 

"Uhh," Nick says, hesitantly. "Yes? Yes. Of - of course." 

"And Simon doesn't know Nick exists," Harry says, turning back to Zayn. "You see? You'll be safe there." 

Zayn's working his bottom lip between his teeth, nervous. 

"Zayn," Harry says, reaching out to touch him. Zayn twitches away, and Harry's heart hurts. Fuck, what's Simon done to him already? What's it done to him, to be out in this bloody hole of a bar, going home with the kind of men who have rubbed themselves up against Harry tonight? 

"Come on," he says, trying to sound sure of himself. He reaches down, slides his hand into Zayn's. "We'll figure something out." 

"You're mental," Zayn whispers again. 

Harry knows that voice, though. He's won. Zayn's given in. 

"Nick parked in front, let's go," he says, staring hungrily at every bit of Zayn, his wide eyes and long lashes and dark hair. Zayn saved him, once, picked Harry up in an alleyway and told him he was cute, asked him what his favorite book was. 

It's Harry's turn. 

Fuck, he could've  _lost him_. 

Zayn's shoulders droop, and he follows Harry out of the alley. After a minute, Nick comes too. 

**ZAYN**

Zayn watches from inside Nick's flat. He wanted Harry to stay, too, but Harry's got to be home, got to be available, in case Simon starts to suspect something. Zayn gets that, logically, but - something's sinking in his stomach, watching Harry leave him alone, with this bloke who very obviously wishes Zayn wasn't staying. 

Harry's murmuring softly to Nick, stood in the doorway with his scarf trailing carelessly against the ground. Nick scoops it up, wraps it round Harry's neck, and Harry pulls him into a kiss. 

Zayn looks down, and then up again, helplessly. 

They're snogging properly, Harry's hand low on Nick's back and Nick with an arm around Harry's neck. 

Harry pulls away, darts another soft kiss to Nick's lips, and Nick strokes his hair. 

"Night," Harry says, looking into the flat and catching Zayn's eye, and Zayn looks away, face going red. 

"Night, Zaynie," he calls, louder. "Be careful!" 

"Good night, Haz," Zayn says firmly, staring down at the countertop. 

"Night, love," Nick murmurs, kissing him one last time. "We'll be fine, don't fret. See you tomorrow. Be careful." 

"Not fretting," Harry says back, smiling, and there's another wet sound of a kiss. Zayn doesn't look this time. His stomach's doing something strange, twisty and nervous. 

The door shuts, and Nick comes back in, scrubbing a hand over his mouth sheepishly. 

"Umm," he says, stepping into the kitchen. "So. Do you, uh, fancy a brew?" 

"No, it's alright," Zayn says, sliding off the stool. "I, uh, I don't need, like. I don't need anything. Really." 

Fuck, his face is burning. 

"I mean, I was going to have a cup before bed," Nick says, shifting from foot to foot. "It's no trouble. Haz bought me this weird fruity herbal shit he swears by. It's actually not awful." 

He looks up at Zayn, smiling sheepishly. "Have a cup with me. If you fancy." 

"Yeah, alright then," Zayn mumbles, and Nick grins, flicks his kettle on. 

\---

They sit on the sofa with their tea, and Nick turns on a re-run of EastEnders, turns the volume up, as if to preclude any potential conversation.  

Zayn doesn't fucking mind. He can't think of a thing he'd like to do less in the world than  _talk_. He sits, and sips, and stares blankly at the screen, his mind racing over how farfetched this all is, how easy it would be for Harry to get caught. And then - his body in the river. Zayn knows it's stupid, to let his mind gnaw restlessly on the image, but he can't fucking stop himself.

Nick coughs, uncomfortably, shifts in his seat and turns off the telly. 

"Off to bed, I think," he says. "You can stay up late as you want. Obviously, I mean, you're an adult. That sounded dad-like, didn't it. Sorry." 

Zayn huffs a laugh, looking sidelong at him. Nick's self-conscious, in the way he picks at the frayed knee of his jeans, glances over at Zayn every now and then. Zayn's fucked men like him, nervous and fidgety. He thinks he knows what Nick probably wants. 

"So, uh, good night," Nick says. "Just like, keep the volume down a bit if you want to watch telly? Only cos I've got to get up stupid early for the radio."

Zayn nods, his stomach tensing up. 

"Nick," he says, before Nick stands up. "Uh." 

Nick's eyes drop to Zayn's mouth, then flick back up. "Yeah?" he asks, quietly. 

"You know, you can, like," Zayn starts, tripping over the words. "You can - do whatever. If you like. We can do whatever." 

Nick's eyebrows furrow. 

"Anything you want," Zayn forces out, not making eye contact. His palms are sweaty, so he doesn't put one on Nick's thigh. He's out of practice, apparently. "You didn't have to let me stay here." 

Nick exhales, slowly. 

"You just have to ask," Zayn says, trying to sound like his old self. Smooth. Confident. Men like Nick need to be talked into things, sometimes, always held back by some misguided sense of right and wrong. "Consider it an - an open invitation." 

There's a silence. Zayn's breath catches in his throat, and he tries not to make a sound as he exhales, shakily.

"I'm not-" Nick flushes, and Zayn waits to hear how Nick will justify it to himself, before he lets Zayn touch him.

"I'm really not, um, interested," Nick says, scrubbing his hands over the thighs of his jeans. "Not in a rude way, sorry, just. I'm sort of quite happy just - shagging, uh, Harry at the moment?" 

Zayn stays perfectly still. Nick's red all the way down his neck. 

"Don't tell him that, though," Nick says, with a sheepish sort of laugh. "Because, like, we're not - like that. Exclusive or whatever. And honestly we don't have to be, it's just - I'm quite old and tired sometimes and I work a lot and I'm not really looking to pull people, like, go out and - oh god, I'm rambling." 

He shakes his head as if to clear it. "Sorry. What I mean is, that's- that's very kind of you to offer, but. You really don't - that's not why I've let you stay here. You don't need to do that, and I don't - want you to. I mean, you're fit, you're obviously - gorgeous, like your cheekbones could cut glass, my mate Henry- he's a fashion designer, like, he would absolutely  _kill_  to put you in one of his shows. You'd look incredible in a mad printed suit and some high-fashion glasses, like, wow, London would fall to its knees. But I just- that's not, that doesn't mean, y'know. No. Thank you. Oh my god, am I still talking?" 

Zayn chokes out a laugh. It feels strange. It's been a while. 

Nick laughs too, cautiously. "What?" 

"You're just really weird," Zayn says, feeling sort of giddy. "You're weirder than Harry." 

"Bite your tongue, no one's  _that_  weird." 

Zayn bites down another stupid bubbly laugh, tucks his knee up to his chest on the sofa. "You are." 

Nick smiles, like he's willing to be made fun of a bit, like he's easy for it. 

"I'll take that as a compliment, then," he says. "I'm - I'm off to bed. Alright?" 

Zayn nods, squeezing his calf, watching Nick's kind face as he reaches forward to grab his mug of tea. 

He's good for Harry. Harry deserves - that. Someone nice, who doesn't step out on him or think it's alright to fuck around because Harry's a whore. 

Harry's got a lot of people who don't hate him for what he does. His mum and his sister and Nick. Zayn presses his face against his knee and tries his very hardest not to be jealous of that. 

Nick grabs Zayn's mug as well. "Done with that?" 

Zayn nods, and Nick smiles at him before he goes back into the kitchen. 

"Try and get some sleep," he calls behind him. 

"Thanks," Zayn says, so softly Nick probably can't hear him. 

He waits until Nick's footsteps have faded off down the hall before he lies down on the sofa, pulls the blanket over him, exhales slowly. Before he can blink, he's out. Thank god. 

**HARRY**

Harry knows that he has to be careful.

His edge, with Simon, is that Simon thinks he's a fucking idiot. A child. That's the only ammunition Harry has. He has these awful thoughts, in the shower, sometimes - about taking a knife to Simon's and stabbing him in the gut, or putting more pills in his drinks, stronger pills, and watching him slip past sleep into-

Shit. Harry has to shake himself out of it, because he knows that in the end, that's the stupidest thing he could do.

What he has to  _do_ , is be careful.

He shows up at Simon's on a Friday, and Simon's barely let him past the doorway before Harry's choking out a thick, loud sob, throwing his arms around Simon's shoulders.

"Oh- Christ," Simon says, taking Harry by the wrists and pushing him off. "What's - what's wrong? Why're you crying?" 

Harry buries his face in Simon's chest, lets out a high whimper.

"My- my mum, she found out," he gasps against Simon's expensive silk shirt, making sure to get it damp with his snot and saliva. "She found out about - about what I've been doing. In London." 

Simon pushes Harry back by the forehead, looking irritated. He's been short with him since the night they had sex. Ashamed, probably. Thinks he fell asleep during, and for a man like Simon, that's - well.

Harry blinks up at him, scrubs a hand over his eyes. It's not hard to make it look convincing. He's got allergies that go mad in the spring, and he's scared as hell, and the combination looks quite like hysterical tears.

"She found out, what," Simon says, looking impatient. 

"About  _me_ ," Harry chokes, his voice trembling. "Being an escort. And- and she-" 

He sniffles, lifts his wide wet eyes to Simon's. "She wants me to quit. She wants me to come - to come home."

Simon's eyes narrow, and Harry breaks into a fresh round of sobs, throwing himself at Simon again. 

"I have to - to quit," he whimpers out. "I'm so, so sorry, I'm so sorry, Simon-" 

"You make your own money, it's not her business," Simon says, raising his voice to be heard over Harry's sobs. 

"She's my  _mum,_ " Harry says, choked. "I  _love her_. And she says she'll come to London and- and drag me back up to Cheshire if she's got to. I'm so sorry, I don't wanna let you down-" 

He breaks off, pressing his flushed cheek against Simon's neck.

"Alright," Simon says shortly, peeling Harry off him. "You're serious about this?" 

Harry sniffs theatrically. "Yeah. She was so  _mad_ , I'm so- embarrassed, she wants me home in a week, she's being _so_ mean, it's not  _fair-_ " 

Simon doesn't let Harry touch him again. 

"There's forms to sign," he says, dispassionately. "And - unfortunately, if I'm remembering correctly, most of the money in your account will have to cover expenses. Some purchases you owe me for. Your flat, your transportation-" 

Harry nods, wiping mournfully at his face, and when Simon turns around, Harry grins to himself, fierce, triumphant. That's that, then. Legit. 

\---

Five days later, Nick aimlessly picks up a salt-shaker in his kitchen, sets it down again, and Harry watches him quietly.

"So," he says, a brave little smile on his face. "Love 'em and leave 'em, huh, Styles?" 

Harry chokes out a laugh, and then starts to cry, which he kind of expected. He's spent the last week in Nick's flat, fucking him as quietly as he can every night, with Zayn sleeping on the sofa ten yards away, none the wiser. 

And now he has two train tickets, and his bags are packed, and he's doing it. He's leaving London. He's actually leaving London. Leaving  _Nick_.

He's not actually leaving til tomorrow, but in some stupid twist of fate, Nick's the one who's going away first, on a week-long trip to America for his spring holidays.  

"Oh, babe," Nick says, letting out a breath between his gritted teeth. "C'mere."

Harry wraps his arms around Nick's warm, solid back. 

"Sorry," he says, snuffly, against Nick's neck. "I'm- I'm sorry." 

"Shh, it's alright," Nick says quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's alright, Hazza." 

Harry sniffles hard, lifts his head and swipes at his eyes with his fingers. 

"Fuck," he mumbles. "I hate this." 

"You'll be alright." Nick pats his back, kisses his ear. "This is good. We're happy, aren't we? We're happy about this?" 

Harry's not sure. A week ago he was happy, and ready, and it was all he wanted, to get the fuck out of London. Start something new. Get Zayn somewhere safe.

"You know, I can still, you know. Get you a job. Could get you both a job, probably. I can figure something out, if it's what you want. You could - you could stay here, until I get back." Nick's voice is cautious and soft. 

"No," Harry says, pulling back, rubbing his eyes again. Nick reaches out, quietly thumbs the wet off Harry's cheek. "No, I- I need to go." 

Nick nods, cupping Harry's jaw in his palm. 

"S'probably a good thing, anyway," he says, voice unsteady. "If you stuck around we'd get sick of each other. Plus I'd get fat and you'd start shagging someone fitter than me." 

"Shut up," Harry says thickly, laughing a little. "I'd never get sick of you."

Nick bites his bottom lip, leans in and kisses Harry's cheek softly. 

"I do love you, I think," he says, regretfully. 

"I love you too," Harry says, sniffing in hard so he doesn't start sobbing again.

"Yeah, yeah," Nick says, his eyes not leaving Harry's for a second. "Enough with the soppy stuff." 

Harry chokes out a laugh, puts his face against Nick's warm, soft neck, stoops to nestle under his chin. 

"Ohh, shh," Nick whispers, when he feels Harry's back heave again. He runs his hand up to Harry's neck, cradles him close. "Shh, it's alright. We'll be fine." 

His own voice is wobbly. 

"Promise you'll call," Harry gulps out, pulling back, and Nick wipes the tears off his face again, with his thumb. "Promise?" 

"I promise." 

Harry nods, staring at him, drinking him in. 

"Promise you'll come back and stay if you need to," Nick says, very softly. "Promise me you'll tell me if something goes wrong." 

Harry nods again, gratefully. 

"There's a place for you at mine, alright? Always," Nick says, sniffling. "Well. Unless I get like, married or sommat, which seems ever more unlikely. My future boyfriend might protest to someone fitter than him coming to stay at the flat." 

"What if he's fitter than me," Harry says, smiling all watery. 

"There's no one fitter than you, Harold," Nick says, and grins wide. "You walked  _straight_  into that one, didn't you." 

"I hate you," Harry mumbles out, his mouth tugging up helplessly, and Nick pulls him in again, places a row of kisses over his hairline. Harry just breathes, tries to get as much of Nick's smell as he can before it's gone. 

"Hey," he says, against Nick's cheek. "Take off your shirt." 

"My car's coming in, like, five minutes," Nick says with a glance at the oven clock. "We can't get  _anything_  done in five minutes." 

"Just take it off," Harry says. Nick's wearing a zip-up jacket and a soft, worn-in navy blue t-shirt. That'll do. 

Nick rolls his eyes and huffs a sigh, but he unzips his jacket, yanks off his shirt. Harry grabs it from him, and then reaches out for a last grope of Nick's chest hair. He can't help it. 

Nick yelps when Harry tweaks his nipple, slaps at Harry's hand. 

"You tart," he says, and Harry strokes down to his stomach, curls his hand around Nick's hip. 

"Gonna miss you." 

"I'll get fat," Nick says. "Trust me. I'm planning on it." 

"Wouldn't care," Harry says, thinking hard about it, getting old with Nick, getting old together. Harry would be very happy, probably. 

Nick's mouth goes crooked and he leans forward, kisses Harry's bottom lip. 

"Hey, thanks," he says. "For being. You." 

"Now who's soppy," Harry mumbles, kissing him again. 

"Do I get my shirt back?" 

Harry shakes his head, hands Nick his jacket, and Nick slips it over his shoulders. Harry zips it up slowly, brushes Nick's front off with both hands. 

"There you go." 

"Cool airport outfit," Nick says, looking down at himself. "How far can I unzip this before I get arrested for indecent exposure?" 

"Like it when you keep the rug out," Harry says, tilting his head and running his hand down under the jacket. Nick twitches, pulls his hands off, laughing quietly.

A horn honks outside, and Nick looks up. 

"Shit, that'll be the cab. Why would they beep the horn when they're bloody early? Like, give me a minute." 

"Stop whinging," Harry says, biting down a stupid smile. 

"Fuck," Nick sighs. "I wish you were coming with me."

Harry nods, kicking at Nick's beaten-up Converse. "I know." 

Nick cups Harry's jaw in one hand. 

"Emily's coming by tomorrow to get Pig," he says, running his fingers down Harry's cheek. "She should be here before noon. Don't forget to lock the door on your way out. You can stay another day, if you need to, Haz, you know that, right?"

"Yeah, I know." 

"Just- be careful." Nick puts his arms around Harry's neck. "And if you have a shag in my bed, put the sheets in the laundry." 

Harry huffs a laugh. "Thanks, Nick." 

The horn beeps again, and Nick huffs out a sigh. 

"Shit." 

"Go," Harry says softly, pushing at Nick's chest. "It's alright." 

Nick kisses him again, something careful and soft, holding Harry's face in both his hands. 

"See you again," Harry mumbles against his lips. "Promise." 

Nick nods, too many times. He wipes his eyes, smiling. 

"Be good, Harry Styles," he says, voice rough, grabbing his suitcase. 

"I will." 

Nick nods again, and turns. Harry looks away, when the door slams shut. 

**ZAYN**

Harry invites him into bed, the night that Nick leaves. 

He's been sad all afternoon - making dinner and packing his things and doing the washing-up all with a melancholy air, so Zayn's not exactly surprised when Harry rolls over towards him in the middle of the night, pulls Zayn's mouth to his. 

Harry needs certain things when he's sad, and Nick's not here anymore, so. Next best option, innit. 

Zayn inhales sharply, waking up from his doze, and kisses back on instinct. 

Christ, Harry's mouth is soft. Zayn kisses him again, and Harry curls his hand around the back of Zayn's neck, mouths down his neck. 

They snog for a while, messy but gentle, cautious with each other. Zayn's heart keeps hurting every time he thinks about what they're doing. He's not sure if that's a good or a bad thing. 

"Hey," he says, eventually, pulling back, keeping a hand nested deep in Harry's thick hair. Harry's hard against Zayn's hip, glassy-eyed. Zayn's - well. Zayn's dick doesn't always catch up with his brain. He'd get there, though, if- 

"You want to fuck me?" he says, low. 

He knows Harry does. He's listened to Nick and Harry shag every night for the past week, giggling quietly, groaning, thinking Zayn's asleep. He knows that Harry needs it, a lot. That it makes him happy.

Harry looks at him, his mouth half-open, hair falling into his face. 

"C'mon," Zayn murmurs, reaching up to kiss him again. "It'll feel good." 

His stomach's flipping nervously at the thought of fucking Harry - the way Harry might take his time, be careful. Zayn's scared and he wants it. He has this feeling, like, if he lets Harry fuck him, it'll take back all the sick shit Zayn's done in his life. Cleanse him, like one of those weird born-again virgins in America that Zayn saw on telly.

He wants that so badly he can taste it. 

"Zayn," Harry says, his voice rough. 

"Yeah?" Zayn can't hold eye contact with him. He's shaking just slightly. God he wants this. He just wants to feel better. He wants Harry to take care of him. 

"Ben- Ben told me," Harry says slowly. His eyes are big, nervous. "About, um, about that bloke. Your dad's friend. The one who-" 

Zayn yanks away from him, scrambles upright, shoving Harry's hands away.

"Zayn-" 

"Shut up," Zayn says, voice cracking. "Shut up. Don't." 

Harry sits up, staring at him. "Zayn, it's okay." 

" _Don't_ ," Zayn says, thickly. It's not - he should be able to deal with this by now, he should be- but it feels like someone pressing cruelly down on a bruise, unexpected. Like the rug's been snatched from under him. His hands are shaking. Harry doesn't need to- know that. Harry doesn't fucking need to know about Zayn's shit.

"He said this - this guy, like, used to, sleep with you, and- I- I think it's fucked, okay?" Harry says, his voice wobbling. "He shouldn't have done that to you. And- and I don't want, like, I don't want to - to hurt you, or - like, I don't want you to feel obligated-" 

"Shut up," Zayn says, more calmly this time. "Just fucking shut up, Harry. You don't know what you're talking about." 

He doesn't turn to see Harry's face, but he can imagine it. Puppy eyes, wobbly lip. 

"Zayn," he whispers. 

"I'm gonna take a shower," Zayn bites out, standing up. "I don't want to talk about it again." 

"Zayn, wait-" 

Zayn slams the door of Nick's en-suite, lets out a gust of breath. 

He looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes are red, mouth swollen from kissing. There's a lovebite on his neck, and he wants to cry, he really wants to cry. 

He doesn't. He swallows it down, and flicks the shower on. 

When he comes out, fluffy towel around his waist, the lights are off and Harry's in bed, under the covers, curled up on his side. 

Zayn stares at him for a second, and digs in his backpack for a clean pair of briefs, slips into them. He pulls a t-shirt over his head before he climbs into bed next to Harry. 

He lies there for a minute, staring into darkness, trying to sort out what he's feeling. It's all a mess, as usual. 

"I'm sorry," Harry whispers, into the silence. 

Zayn grabs for a pillow, pulls it to his chest. It smells like Nick's cologne, something rich that makes Zayn's nose prickle.

"It's fine," he says, flatly. 

"I love you," Harry mumbles. 

Zayn can't - do that right now. He can't. He just shuts his eyes. 

"Good night, Haz." 

Harry sniffles audibly, murmurs it back. 

 ---

They head to the train station at ten, Harry blinking mole-eyed and burrowing into his scarf, Zayn grim and determined. He didn't sleep well. He had this nightmare, about Simon bursting through the bedroom door, catching them fucking, Harry buried balls-deep in Zayn's arse, Zayn face-down. In his dream, Simon had started to laugh. 

"Mutts," he said, shaking his head, grinning broadly. "Dogs love to fuck, don't they." 

Zayn shakes himself, puts his hand on Harry's back as they cross the busy street. 

They get breakfast in an Au Bon Pain at the station, egg and cheese sandwiches and massive cups of tea. Harry gulps his before it cools and he whines, winces, sticks out his tongue. Zayn hands him a bottle of water. 

"So," Harry says, a bit lispy from his burnt tongue. "To Cheshire, first?" 

Zayn chews his lip, nodding, peering around at the crowded shop. 

"He's not here," Harry says softly. "He doesn't know we're here." 

Zayn nods, feeling stupid. He takes a bite of his sandwich. 

"We'll go to mine for a bit," Harry says, watching Zayn with his wide eyes. "Stay with my mum. Figure stuff out." 

"Yeah," Zayn mutters.  

"It'll be good, I think, to save some money, like," Harry says, sighing out a breath. "For when we leave. For rent and things." 

"Yeah," Zayn repeats. "Yeah, no, you're right." 

"I have some stuff to sell," Harry says, hesitantly. "I've got this- this watch. Think it cost like three grand. Umm, Ben gave it to me." 

Zayn stiffens at his name. Ben bought Zayn some things as well, lavish, unnecessary things. Zayn gave most of them back when they stopped seeing each other, in a colossally stupid move that felt deep and symbolic at the time. 

"And, like, some jewelry," Harry continues, sipping his now-cooled tea. "Elise bought me a necklace and those really posh big headphones. Those'll fetch something." 

Zayn nods, glancing at the clock. 

"Train's soon," he says. "We should go." 

Harry nods too. 

"You alright?" he asks, quietly. 

"I'm fine, Harry." It comes out harsh, and he regrets it immediately. 

"Okay," Harry breathes. "Sorry." 

\---

The train leaves at half past. Zayn herds Harry inside, finds two seats together. Harry sits by the window, his bag between his legs, his face soft and curious as he glances out the window. 

Zayn stares straight ahead, one strap of his backpack looped around his leg so no one can grab it. 

The doors slide shut, and the train rumbles, picks up speed, and that's it. There they are. Northern-bound, London fading away behind them, just a memory now. 

Zayn bites his bottom lip hard. 

Harry's still looking out the window, and he startles just slightly when Zayn gingerly puts his hand over his. 

He takes it, though. He turns his palm up, lets their hands press together, tangles his long fingers with Zayn's. 

Zayn stares down at their hands for a minute. Harry's watching him, when he looks up. 

"Love you," Zayn says, first this time, his throat aching. He wants Harry to  _know,_ because it's true. It's more true than it's been with anyone else. He doesn't know how to say that to Harry - how to say about all the times Zayn thinks about him before falling asleep, or the way Harry's face makes his chest hurt, sometimes. The way he wants nothing bad to ever, ever happen to Harry. 

He can't say any of that without sounding mental, so he squeezes Harry's hand, hard. 

"Love you too," Harry says back, his thumb pressing into Zayn's skin. 

"I'm sorry about last night," Zayn says, voice wobbly. He looks ahead, not at Harry, but he keeps his hand very still, pressed against Harry's. 

"It's okay," Harry says softly. "It's fine." 

"I'm not-" Zayn starts, and something lodges itself in his throat. He coughs. "I'm not, like. I'm not good at - I dunno. I'm not good at being good." 

He sniffs in hard. 

"I think you're good," Harry whispers, like a secret. "Think you're amazing." 

"I'm not," Zayn mutters. There's a lot of things he doesn't know, but that's one he does, deep down. Zayn's not good. Zayn is clever, and he's pretty, and he's sexy, but he's not good. He's known that since he was fourteen. 

"Yes you are," Harry says, leaning in, his mouth brushing against Zayn's ear. "You are." 

Zayn wants to put his face into Harry's chest and cry. He wants to sob like a baby. He wants his mother. He wants his mother to touch his face with her soft hand, tell him it's going to be okay, tuck him into bed, cover him with her warmth. He wants all these things he can't have.

He makes a low, rough sound, and Harry presses his cheek to Zayn's neck.  

"It's alright," he says, like he knows how close Zayn is to falling apart. "We'll go, and we'll go home, and it'll be alright. Everything's going to be alright. We'll figure it out." 

He kisses Zayn's neck, a solid press of his soft full lips. 

Zayn stares straight ahead, as Harry nestles into his neck, starts to fall asleep, slow and sweet. It's inevitable, constant, the way Harry falls asleep when he sits still - in a car, on a train, at the movies. No matter where he is, he always, always nods off. It makes Zayn feel good, in a way he doesn't really understand. 

Will it be alright? He's got no clue. He's got no fucking idea. 

Harry thinks so, though. Maybe, for once, Zayn could just - believe that. Believe in something. 

He's so exhausted. He puts his head on Harry's, closes his eyes, and lets the steady rhythm of the train lull him into sleep. 


End file.
